I must see one who cannot see me, one to whom the beauties of God's earth are lost for ever! He is blind. He stands with his Dack to the wall holding a dog by a strap, a bright-eyed little mongrel, sitting on his

hind legs, holding a little bowl in his mouth. On my answering his appeal, ho drops on to all fours and wags his little stump of a tail, as much as to say bless you! I ask tho blind man his history. " "Why, yer see, sir, I be a moiner, an' I lost me sight in a blast, which went off afore its toime. 1 lives alone, at least me and Jack does. I counts 'im as one."

Tho dog, on hearing his name, again wags his Sttlo stump. " I lives close here, down one o' them by-streets, and could fetch there easy wi'out the pup. Make? Well, I reckon 'bout two bob a day, an' sometimes as mooch as four, wi' luck; it's nigh all coppers. I puts a bit by for rumatiz, winter or a rainy day, or "—and hero he hesitated—" or little Jack 'ere dies, but, sir, when that cooms, s'whelp mo Gord, I 'opes to go, too. He's the on'y pal I'vo got in this world! ain't yer, Jack? Ho war a pup when I got blinded, an' he's five year old now; but he's good for five year more, ain't he, sir"—tears stood in tho poor fellow's sightless orbs—" you ain't a goin' to die yet, are ye, Jack ?" Whack! went the little tail on tho pavement, and I passed on, wishing the faithful little dog a long lifo. "Hckker! Hekker! Hekker! 'Ere yer are, sir! Ony a penny! 'Orrid murder! To-day's football!" sing out tho ragged newsboys. Six o'clock chimes out from a neighbouring tower, the shops are putting up their shutters, and it is getting dark. I drop into the Bodega in Glasshouse street, a dingy-looking spot, but greatly frequented by men about town, a place where wine is drawn from tho wood, cus tomers being surrounded by tiers of barrels I call for a glass of No. 6 sherry, whereupon a small boy rushes to a barrel and draws a largo dock glass full for Gd, olives, an chovies and other small appetisers being on the counter for public use. 