We made a pause at the toy shop in Fleet Street, to see the giants of Saint Dunstan’s strike upon the bells⁠—we had timed our going, so as to catch them at it, at twelve o’clock⁠—and then went on towards Ludgate Hill, and St. Paul’s Churchyard. We were crossing to the former place, when I found that my aunt greatly accelerated her speed, and looked frightened. I observed, at the same time, that a lowering ill-dressed man who had stopped and stared at us in passing, a little before, was coming so close after us as to brush against her.

“Trot! My dear Trot!” cried my aunt, in a terrified whisper, and pressing my arm. “I don’t know what I am to do.”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said I. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Step into a shop, and I’ll soon get rid of this fellow.”

“No, no, child!” she returned. “Don’t speak to him for the world. I entreat, I order you!”