easy a thing as you might suppose. If you
keep too far off you are in danger of losing
the object of your pursuit altogether, for
people have wonderful ways, in these cases of
suddenly disappearing, as it seems, into the
very bowels of the earth.

Let us take an instance. You are a boy of
sixteen—you have been taken for the first
time to the opera—you have seen Carlotta
Grisi, and are, as any right-minded youth of
that age would be, madly in love with her.
You linger at stage-doors, and one day
you see her come out from rehearsal. It is
by no means an uncommon occurrence that
she walks home very plainly dressed, and
accompanied by a shabby female servant.
You determine to find out where she lives, that
you may go and worship outside the house—
a common practice at the age I have
mentioned, and one fraught with tremendous
gratification. It doesn't do later in life
somehow. You determine to follow her,
and soon get into a crowded thoroughfare.
You come to a turning—she was in front of
you a moment ago, but you don't see her.
You look wildly round—you are losing a
little time, but what are you to do? You
will go a little way down that turning. But
you don't see her, and you rush back to the
main line, running on madly ahead, and trying
to see over the people's heads. Still that
straw bonnet with the brown ribbons is not to
be discerned. Is it possible you have passed
her? Well, it is barely possible; so you
think you will go back a little. And, as all
hope is at an end, I give you up, leaving you
with a blank expression of face, standing at
the original corner where the loss occurred.

I think that, by the time we had got to a
small house, in a quiet, little street, in the
vicinity of the New Road, I had been found
out, but I am not sure.

There was a stationer's shop on the ground-
floor, and a private door on which was a
brass plate, with the name of Barker on it—
Barker—only Barker—nothing more.

This door she opened with a key, and
entering, closed it after her. In a minute it
re-opened, a servant looked out, examined
me with a scowl, and closed it once more,
and finally.

I had to hasten back to my work, and was
for some days so closely occupied that I had
no opportunity of continuing my adventure.
But as soon as I could get a couple of hours
clear, I was off, with no definite object in
view, it is true: but simply resolved to get
opposite that interesting little house as
speedily as possible.

It is astonishing what a very little way
I perceived I had got in having found out
where she lived. I was so absurdly little
nearer to knowing her. It was such a very
small matter at my comparatively mature
age of nine and twenty, to be standing, staring
at those inexorable bricks.

Observed, too, observed by the general dealer
whose station was at his shop-door; observed
by the lady who retailed oysters at the corner;
observed by the policeman who came to
the other corner, and took up a position there
apparently with the sole object of observing
me. Observed—why even the milk-
woman had her eye upon me, and she spent
a good deal of time in that street when she
had evidently a large practice. The wretched
little urchins, playing at something with bits
of lead, left off to whisper and point at me. In
short, I could stand it no longer, and was
obliged to take myself off, and leave my
observers masters of the field.

Under these painful circumstances, I
resolved, as a pis aller, to return in the evening,
and see if I could get a little information
out of the scowling servant. Uncommonly
little information it was.

"Did Mrs. Williams live there?" I asked,
politely, when my knock was answered by
the apparition of the ill-favoured servant.
I thought this as good a way of beginning as
any other.

"No!" was the answer, with a scowl and
a tendency to close the door.

"Was she quite sure?" was my next
inquiry.

"Yes!" with a sniff, and an increased
tendency to close the door.

"Didn't a lady with a little girl lodge
there?"

"No; nobody lodged there at all." With
a scowl and a sniff, and so increased a
tendency to close the door, that that inclination
appeared to obtain a complete mastery over
her, and she did close it in my face.

I lost no time in hastening to a neighbouring
tavern in whose window I had observed
an announcement that the Post Office Directory
was taken in there. I turned to the
street, and to the number: " Amphlett,
Thomas, stationer; Barker, Miss, pianist."
I closed the volume, and, putting down
twopence for the bitter-beer which had entitled
me to my information, proceeded slowly and
meditatively on my way.

"If," said I, with a very strong emphasis
on that conjunction, "if, as she of the scowl
hath deposed, there are no lodgers in the
house, it followeth that my photographic
beauty must be either of the family of
Amphlett, Thomas, stationer, or that she
must be herself Barker, Miss, pianist. Now,
had she been an Amphlett, she would have
entered by the shop door, which stood
invitingly open. Since then, I argued with a
logical clearness which astonished me myself,
she is not a lodger any more than she is an
Amphlett, there remaineth but one conclusion
which can be rationally arrived at.

Yes; I see it all, sweet girl! She is,
doubtless, by her industry and talents,
supporting her aged parents in the country, and
the little girl is her younger sister whom she
has taken to live with her as a companion,
and, to a certain extent, a protection.