But his thoughts were sad, for he knew that he was to leave her, and he knew also that he must tell her so.

It was no easy matter, and his walk slackened, till, at the corner of the great thoroughfare, he stood still, looking at a poor woman who ground a tuneless hand-organ.

The instrument of tympanum torture was on wheels, and to the back of it was attached a cradle.

In the cradle was a dirty little baby, licking its fist and listening with conscientious attention to the perpetual trangle-tringle-jangle of the maternal music.

In truth the little thing could not well listen to anything else, considering the position in which it was placed.