"Happy Evenings."
Ordinarily the High Street fairly stewed with juvenile humanity. But to-night, for a wonder, the High Street, Plimsoll Lane, Byles's Rents, and all the adjacent squalid courts and avenues were deserted. Something more than a mild fog was needed to effect such a transformation out of school hours. Neither was there evidence, ocular or auricular, of any hand-organ, or a trained bear, or a free fight enlivening the neighbourhood. How was it possible to account for the peaceful condition of the streets? Surely the ordinary denizens of the gutter couldn't be at school? Well, not exactly at school, but at the school-house. A ragged little urchin of seven volunteered to be our pilot.
"'Appy evenin'? Yessir, I'm goin' there myself. I'll show you."
"What's your name, my boy?"
"Saunders, sir; but they allers calls me 'Magsie,' all along o' my twin-sister wot uz named Marguerite."
"And why isn't your little sister with you to-night?"
"'Cos she got scarlet fever."
"Scarlet fever? Good gracious, boy!"
"An' she died—more'n a year ago."