THE reader will remember the night when the two burglars and the little boy effected their entrance into Sir Robert Brompton's house, and of their escaping after a fruitless. search for booty, with the person of Edith, Sir Robert's adopted child, We left them just as they were passing out of the basement window in front of the house, while the watch or night police were entering by the back door. We will not pause to describe the consternation that spread itself through Sir Robert's household, but will follow the burglars and their burthen.

Edith, as we have already said, was quite insensible, offering no resistance to the purposes of the villains, who were thus tearing her from the bosom of a happy and contented home. In this state the burglars bore her along in their arms by the shaded side of the streets, until at last reaching a dark alley they entered it, and having threaded its entire length, they seemed to pass the rest of the

Entering a large old wooden building that must once have been occupied for some extensive manufacturing purpose, but which was now quite tottering and dilapidated, presenting a half ruinous appearance, they deposited their living burthen upon the floor of the room which they entered, where a lamp was burning evidently in anticipation of their arrival, and for their use. Edith had so far revived during the latter part of the route as to sob faintly now and then, but not sufficiently to realize the situation in which she was placed. But now as she was laid down gently upon the floor, she gradually came more fully to herself, and her physical strength to revive, and in this condition rising upon her arms, she looked wildly about her for a moment, and then said:

"Is this a dream, a horrible dream, or am I awake? Where am I?”

The two burglars whispered to each other. "What does this mean, where am I?" ask

Neither of the burglars seemed disposed to answer the question, but the elder of the two, whom the reader ere this has recognized as Bill the Bold, went to a side door, bidding his companion, who was Hardhead, to keep a bright look out on the girl for a moment, and rapped, and half opening it, asked of the in

mate:

rounded her on all sides in this filthy place. In her speculations upon these matters, once the fear crossed her mind that possibly when the family at Sir Robert's should awake in the morning and find the house robbed and herself gone, they might be led to suspect her of being voluntarily absent, and that she was one of those who had robbed them. The bare probability of such a thing seemed to render her most miserable; all other casualties growing out of her present situation for the moment dwindled into insignificance when compared with the chance that these dearly loved ones might suspect her of being unworthy the generous solicitude she had received at their hands, and of thus repaying the warm affection that each and all in that dear house had accorded to her. But this thought did not trouble her long, it was dismissed as being unworthy of a single pang of fear. They must have known my heart too well," she said to herself.

A few days served to accustom Edith to her unhappy situation, or at least comparatively so, and also to cause her to feel some interest in her young companion in misery. Clara, as they called her, was, like Edith, not more than fifteen years of age, yet the mode of life that she had evidently followed, had perhaps more fully developed her person and mind, as it regarded her bearing and manner. For many years, as Edith afterwards learned, she had been thrown entirely on her own resources, for the care of herself, and without so much as a single adviser of her own sex to whom she might go or consult upon even the most trifling subjects. Her casual associates had been rude and boisterous men, with now and then an exception in favor of some one who possessed more heart and kindness than the rest. Her home had ever been in some den like this, where burglars and thieves. made their headquarters. She was very handsome, yet not so much so as her new companion, her beauty being of rather a different character. She was playful, quick at repartee, and apparently happy in spite of her situation, for she had never known any other life than that she now led, nor did she possess that nice sense of delicacy that would render her, as it did Edith, unhappy because a rude. word was spoken in her hearing or herself made the butt of a coarse or a low jest.

Of course this was occasioned by the want of education and association with the refined of her own sex, in no small degree, and yet in Edith's case, which in many respects seemed to bear a strong resemblance to that of Clara there was a certain delicacy, and an inward prompting, that had kept her pure from the contaminating influences that had surrounded. her in the tap shop of St. Giles. She had come from that den as pure and unstained at heart, as though she had never seen the dingy houses of London, or breathed its murky atmosphere, but had gambolled away her youth on sloping hill-sides, and by the margin of babbling brooks. It was nature, not art, in Edith. But let Clara's situation have been what it may, her character and natural disposition was so free, generous, truthful and warm-hearted, that Edith had not been in the house with her a single week, before she loved her like a sister, and frankly told her so. Only too much delighted to have a companion of any sort, Clara returned this affection with interest. She seemed to be under considerable fear of Lancewood, as Bill was known in this place, at the head of which he seemed to be. Clara said that he had been known to kill so many people who had opposed him, that she was afraid he would one day take her life, and throw her body into the Thames.

"Does he ever threaten you, Clara, that you fear him so much?"

No, but before you came, he used to sit and look at me strangely, and now he does just the same to you, though I don't think that he means to harm you, I am sure I don't. But don't you think his eyes are very bad

ones ?"

They don't look very pleasant or agreeable to me, you may depend."

"I never saw worse ones."

"How long have you been here, Clara ?" asked Edith.

"About a year, I should think, though I keep no count of time."

"Where did you come from then?" "A place farther in the city."

"Like this? I mean, frequented by this sort of people?"

"Yes."

"Have you any father living?" "No."

"No mother?"

"No, 1 never had one to know her. A woman whom I used to call aunt, was very good to me, I can remember, until I was six or seven years old, but I was taken away from her by somebody after a while, though how, or why, I canot exactly remember. I believe she died or was murdered, but I have seen so many strange persons since, I have had so many changes, that I cannot remember very well about those times. I do remember that for a while I had no home at all, but used to sleep under a boat at Wapping, and beg in the day time. After that I was in a cellar in St. Giles, and helped to take care of a bar, but they said I was too small, and one day the woman who lives in the rooms with Mrs. Lancewood saw me there, and she said if I would come with her and help her take care of her house here, she would give me a comfortable home. But the first time that Lancewood saw me, he started and gazed at me so queerly that the woman drove me out of the room, and I have had to sleep and stay in these rooms ever since, except helping her a little now and then when he is out."

Edith remembered that he had been similarly moved when he first saw her at Mother Giles's, but said nothing.

"So this is the comfortable home that the woman promised you," said Edith, glancing about the room they were in, and then comparing it in her mind with the sumptuous apartments that she occupied at Sir Robert Brompton's.

"I don't suppose you think it a very good home," said Clara, "but then it is a nice one for me after all. I had to sleep in an open shed most of winter before last, and then O, I was so cold in the frosty nights, that I used to cry; but this room you see is quite close, and then I've got a pretty good bed. Don't you think so, Edith ?"

she was stolen away from her friends, she said not a word, submitting without resistance, but with an aching heart, that was far too sad and broken to utter its complaint. Now she was clothed like Clara, very coarsely, but still their clothes were whole, and it rested with them to keep them clean. Some light duties were required of them by the woman referred to, who seemed to wish to get rid of them; but this she dared not attempt, though she ruled Lancewood apparently in nearly all things else, yet relating to this matter, she did not seem to dare to cross his will or thwart him.

To Clara the story which her new friend told her of her life at the tap-room in St. Giles, her singular rescue from thence, and the manner in which it was done, and the subsequent years which she had passed so happily at Sir Robert Brompton's house, seemed like a fairy tale, and she was never tired of listening to it from Edith's lips. Indeed her new companion was obliged to tell these things to her again and again, and repeat to her over and over again, how the good Mrs. Marlow looked, and what she said, for it seemed to the inexperienced and beautiful girl that such things could hardly be true, they were so wonderfully beyond all experience of her own. But she believed every word, because she knew that Edith would not deceive her, and she kindly sympathized with her young companion at the loss of such friends, and would have cheerfully risked much to have. placed her once more safely in the hands of those she had left. But she feared for her very life, should she take any step to further, such design as that of Edith's escape.

The reputed wife of Lancewood watched the girls narrowly, and strove, it seemed to them, to render their position as uncomfortable as possible. None but the coarsest food was permitted for their use, and this was of ten scantily served. Lancewood himself frequently came and smoked his pipe in the room adjoining the store room, and drank his portion of spirit and water, and when he did so, he often summoned them from their sleeping room and engaged them in conversation. To Edith these were terrible moments, for the man at times would stare at her so wildly, and seeming to forget himself, would often mutter such strange, incoherent sentences,

that she would involuntarily draw near to Clara, and almost seek to hide herself behind her companion. Then at times, the woman who kept the house would come in upon them, when a scene was sure to ensue. She would rave in the most violent and unaccountable rage at him for preferring the company, as she said, of the two young girls to her, and Bill the Bold was most untrue to the title his comrades had given him as characteristic of his spirit, for as Lancewood in his own house, he was perfectly submissive to this woman's tongue.

Though bold beyond all his comrades when there was actual danger to meet and overcome, yet he could not contend against such fearful odds as an incensed and jealous woman presented.

Sometimes, one or two young men, evidently under the patronage of the woman of the house, came to see Clara and Edith, but although the latter always retired as quickly as possible from their coarse and unmannerly society, yet she was not unfrequently surprised and even grieved to find that Clara did not wholly dislike their company. The truth was, Edith could make no allowance for the want of native delicacy in another that she herself was so fully endowed with, nor did she remember poor Clara's lack of cultivation, and ignorance even of the first principles of religion and Christianity. The society of the vile even, if characterized, as it was on such occasions, to her by kindness, was a novelty in which her untutored mind could find no cause for self-crimination. These casual friends were kind and generous to the forlorn girl, and she was but too happy to experience such treatment from any one.

Heaven weighs the deeds of such in a wise balance; if Clara sinned, she did so innocently. If she was imprudent and even guilty in deed, still her heart was true and innocent, for she knew no better !

True, she sometimes listened thoughtfully to the simple reflections of Edith, upon her entertaining the society we have referred to, but neither were much more than children— and how could it be expected that such should successfully repel temptation? or rather how could Edith inspire her handsome and winning companion with the feelings that filled her own gentle breast where the foundation

for receiving such goodly advice was entirely wanting? As for Edith herself, she might have lived for many a long year in such a place without contamination. Nay, she would have come out of the fiery ordeal as pure as the asbestos, which is only cleansed by contact with the fiery element.

"Clara, I know you will no longer see those persons, for my sake."

The eyes of the handsome girl would seek the floor, but she spoke not.

"Say, Clara, will you not refuse to meet any of them again?"

66

Alas, Edith," she would answer, sadly, "are we not very often without food and articles of actual necessity to keep us warm and comfortable, and are not those persons who bring them to us our friends ?"

"O, my dear Clara, we should not prejudice our souls to comfort our bodies," Edith would say, repeating the good, though homely advice that Mrs. Marlow had often given her. "Do you think So, Edith? she would ask, thoughtfully.

"Indeed, indeed, I do, Clara, or I would not say so."

I believe you, Edith." "And will think of what I say?"

"I will."

Shrewd hints and repeated warnings of this and the like character, were not lost upon a disposition naturally so sweet and gentle as that of the orphan Clara. She did think much upon what Edith said to her, and before a twelvemonth had expired-for time is quickly passing on as our story proceeds-Clara had gradually learned to listen with more and more absorbing interest to the reflections of Edith, and to understand her meaning and object better, and indeed voluntarily to refer to the great and vital principles of virtue which she had so earnestly and frequently repeated to her, and then poor Clara would weep at her own condition and declare that she must have been blind not to have known and realized all these things of her own heart. A change seemed to take place in her whole manner and character, and she was never tired of talking with her companion upon the subject of good principles, and the strength of purpose and resolve that would enable a repentant one to sustain a truly innocent course of behaviour.