CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH CHILDE ARTHUR LOSES ONE MOTHER AND GAINS ANOTHER.
"_But and when they came to Easter Gate, Easter Gate stood wide; 'y' are late, y' are late,' the Porter said; 'This morn my Lady died.'_"-- OLD BALLAD.
"Well, in all my born days!" said the young coalheaver again, as he landed the pair on the canal bank.
He reached down a hand and drew up 'Dolph by the scruff of his neck.
The dog shook himself, and stood with his tail still wagging.
"Shut down the hole," Tilda panted, and catching sight of the iron cover, while the young man hesitated she began to drag at it with her own hands.
"Steady on there!" he interposed.

"I got five hundred more to deliver." "You don't deliver another shovelful till we're out o' this," said Tilda positively, stamping the cover in place and standing upon it for safety.
"What's more, if anyone comes an' arsks a question, you ha'n't seen us." "Neither fur nor feather of ye," said the young man, and grinned.
She cast a look at the boy; another up and down the towing-path.
"Got such a thing as a cake o' soap hereabouts?
You wouldn', I suppose--" and here she sighed impatiently.
"I 'ave, though.

Always keeps a bit in my trouser pocket." He produced it with pride.
Said Tilda, "I don't know yername, but you're more like a Garden Angel than any I've met yet in your walk o' life.

Hand it over, an' keep a look-out while I wash this child's face.

I _can't_ take 'im through the streets in this state." She turned upon the boy.