CHAPTER I.
BILLY'S BABY.
Billy was a small boy of ten; he was thin and wiry, had a freckled face, and a good deal of short, rather stumpy red hair.
He was by no means young-looking for his ten years; and only that his figure was small, his shoulders narrow, and his little legs sadly like spindles, he might have passed for a boy of twelve or thirteen.
Billy had a weight of care upon his shoulders—he had the entire charge of a baby.
The baby was a year old, fairly heavy, fairly well grown; she was cutting her teeth badly, and in consequence was often cross and unmanageable.
Billy had to do with her night and day, and no one who saw the two together could for a moment wonder at the premature lines of care about his small thin face.
A year ago, on a certain January morning, Billy had been called away from a delightful game of hop-scotch. A red-faced woman had come to the door of a tall house, which over-looked the alley where Billy was playing so contentedly, and beckoned him mysteriously to follow her.
"Yer'd better make no noise, and take off those heavy clumps of shoes," she remarked.
Billy looked down at his small feet, on which some very large and much-battered specimens of the shoemaker's craft were hanging loosely.