her, and interrupting her, made her now scold, now laugh, now throw herself on the carpet to play with him. She was dressed grotesquely, in glittering robes and shawls fit for a woman; she appeared about ten years of age. We stood at the door looking on this strange scene, till the dog perceiving us barked loudly; the child turned and saw us: her face, losing its gaiety, assumed a sullen expression: she slunk back, apparently meditating an escape. I came up to her, and held her hand; she did not resist, but with a stern brow, so strange in childhood, so different from her former hilarity, she stood still, her eyes fixed on the ground. “What do you do here?” I said gently; “Who are you?”—she was silent, but trembled violently.—“My poor child,” asked Adrian, “are you alone?” There was a winning softness in his voice, that went to the heart of the little girl; she looked at him, then snatching her hand from me, threw herself into his arms, clinging round his neck, ejaculating—“Save me! save me!” while her unnatural sullenness dissolved in tears.
“I will save you,” he replied, “of what are you afraid? you need not fear my friend, he will do you no harm. Are you alone?”
“No, Lion is with me.”
“And your father and mother?—”
“I never had any; I am a charity girl. Everybody is gone, gone for a great, great many days; but if they come back and find me out, they will beat me so!”
Her unhappy story was told in these few words: an orphan, taken on pretended charity, ill-treated and reviled, her oppressors had died: unknowing of what had passed around her, she found herself alone; she had not dared venture out, but by the continuance of her solitude her courage revived, her childish vivacity caused her to play a thousand freaks, and with her brute companion she passed a long holiday, fearing nothing but the return of the harsh voices and cruel usage of her protectors. She readily consented to go with Adrian.