fell directly on M'Guire; and no sooner had she seen the poor

gentleman's face, than she screamed out and leaped backward, as

though she had seen the devil. Almost at the same moment a woman

appeared upon the threshold of a neighbouring shop, and called upon

the child in anger. 'Come here, colleen,' she said, 'and don't be

plaguing the poor old gentleman!' With that she re-entered the

house, and the child followed her, sobbing aloud.

With the loss of this hope M'Guire's reason swooned within him.

When next he awoke to consciousness, he was standing before St.

Martin's-in-the-Fields, wavering like a drunken man; the passers-by

regarding him with eyes in which he read, as in a glass, an image

of the terror and horror that dwelt within his own.

'I am afraid you are very ill, sir,' observed a woman, stopping and

gazing hard in his face. 'Can I do anything to help you?'

'Ill?' said M'Guire. 'O God!' And then, recovering some shadow of

his self-command, 'Chronic, madam,' said he: 'a long course of the

dumb ague. But since you are so compassionate--an errand that I

lack the strength to carry out,' he gasped--'this bag to Portman

Square. Oh, compassionate woman, as you hope to be saved, as you

are a mother, in the name of your babes that wait to welcome you at

home, oh, take this bag to Portman Square! I have a mother, too,'

he added, with a broken voice. 'Number 19, Portman Square.'

I suppose he had expressed himself with too much energy of voice;

for the woman was plainly taken with a certain fear of him. 'Poor

gentleman!' said she. 'If I were you, I would go home.' And she

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