The child gave one glance at her stern face, and then tottered on silently, occasionally rubbing his poor little eyes with the back of his tiny hand.
The wind met them round the corners; it seemed to be everywhere, and at every gust the miserable-looking party looked more miserable still.
"How much 'ave yer took?" asked the man, as if he could turn and run home.
The woman felt for her pocket, and after some fumbling she said in a low voice, "Two-and-eight, I should think."
"Won't that do?" said the man, shivering. Then glancing sideways at the child, he went on, "'E'll not walk many more steps, and if you don't take care 'e'll not be hout to-morrer, nor next day neither; 'e's most done, 'e is."
The woman turned round and was going to speak, when a respectable couple, dressed in warm cloth, silks, and furs, came in sight.
In a moment her manner changed. "Take 'im up," she said in a wheedling tone, "'e's tired, 'e is, and cold; carry 'im a bit, George."
The child, too cold and weary to care, was taken resistlessly into the man's arms, and laid his head on his shoulder, and the party paused, looking expectantly at the lady and gentleman who were fast approaching.
"My good woman, this is a bitter day for such little ones to be out," said the gentleman kindly; "have you far to go?"
"Over London Bridge, sir, down that way."