Leaving Tom in her new home, we return to Mrs. Walsh, which was the proper designation of the old woman whom she called granny. Though Tom had escaped from her clutches, granny had no idea that she intended to stay away permanently. She did not consider that all the advantages of the connection between them had been on her side, and that Tom had only had the privilege of supporting them both. If she had not carried matters so far our heroine would have been satisfied to remain; but now she had fairly broken away, and would never come back unless brought by force.

When six o’clock came granny began to wonder why Tom did not come back. She usually returned earlier, with whatever money she had managed to obtain.

“She’s afraid of a lickin’,” thought granny. “She’ll get a wuss one if she stays away.”

An hour passed, and granny became hungry; but unfortunately she was penniless, and had nothing in the room except a crust of hard bread which she intended for Tom’s supper. Hunger compelled her to eat this herself, though it was not much to her taste. Every moment’s additional delay irritated her the more with the rebellious Tom.

“I wish I had her here,” soliloquized granny, spitefully.

When it was half-past seven granny resolved to go out and hunt her up. She might be on the sidewalk outside playing. Perhaps—but this was too daring for belief—she might be spending her afternoon’s earnings on another square meal.

Granny went downstairs, and through the archway into the street. There were plenty of children, living in neighboring tenement houses, gathered in groups or playing about, but no Tom was visible.

“Have you seen anything of my gal, Micky Murphy?” asked granny of a boy whom she had often seen with Tom.

“No,” said Micky. “I haven’t seen her.”

“Haven’t any of you seen her?” demanded Mrs. Walsh, making the question a general one.

“I seen her sellin’ papers,” said one boy.

“When was that?” asked granny, eagerly.

“’Bout four o’clock.”

“Where was she?”

“Greenwich Street.”

This was a clue at least, but a faint one. Tom had been seen at four o’clock, and now it was nearly eight. Long before this she must have sold her papers, and the unpleasant conviction dawned upon granny that she must have spent her earnings upon herself.

“If I could only get hold of her!” muttered granny, vengefully.

She went as far as the City Hall, and followed along down by the Park fence, looking about her in all directions, in the hope that she might espy Tom. But the latter was at this time engaging lodgings for the night, as we know, and in no danger of being caught.

Unwilling to give up the pursuit, Mrs. Walsh wandered about for an hour or more, occasionally resting on one of the seats in the City Hall Park, till the unwonted exertion began to weary her, and she realized that she was not likely to encounter Tom.

There was one chance left. Tom might have got home while she had been in search of her. Spurred by this hope, Mrs. Walsh hurried home, and mounted to her lofty room. But it was as desolate as when she left it. It was quite clear that Tom did not mean to come back that night. This was provoking; but granny still was confident that she would return in the course of the next day. So she threw herself on the bed,—not without some silent imprecations upon her rebellious charge,—and slept till morning.

Morning brought her a new realization of her loss. She found her situation by no means an agreeable one. Her appetite was excellent, but she was without food or money to buy a supply. It was certainly provoking to think that she must look out for herself. However, granny was equal to the occasion. She did not propose to work for a living, but decided that she would throw herself upon charity. To begin with, she obtained some breakfast of a poor but charitable neighbor, and then started on a walk up town. It was not till she got as far as Fourteenth Street that she commenced her round of visits.

The first house at which she stopped was an English basement house. Granny rang the basement bell.

“Is your mistress at home?” she asked.

“Yes; what’s wanted?”

“I’m a poor widder,” whined granny, in a lugubrious voice, “with five small children. We haven’t got a bit of food in the house. Can’t you give me a few pennies?”

“I’ll speak to the missis, but I don’t think she’ll give any money.”

She went upstairs, and soon returned.

“She won’t give you any money, but here’s a loaf of bread.”

Mrs. Walsh would much have preferred a small sum of money, but muttered her thanks, and dropped the loaf into a bag she had brought with her.

She went on to the next block, and intercepted a gentleman just starting down town to his business.

“I’m a poor widder,” she said, repeating her whine; “will you give me a few pennies? and may the Lord bless you!”

“Why don’t you work?” asked the gentleman, brusquely.

“I’m too old and feeble,” she answered, bending over to assume the appearance of infirmity. This did not escape the attention of the gentleman, who answered unceremoniously, “You’re a humbug! You won’t get anything from me! If I had my way, I’d have you arrested and locked up.”

Granny trembled with passion, but did not think it politic to give vent to her fury.

Her next application was more successful, twenty-five cents being sent to the door by a compassionate lady, who never doubted the story of the five little children suffering at home for want of food.

Granny’s eyes sparkled with joy as she hastily clutched the money. With it she could buy drink and tobacco, while food was not an object of barter.

“The missis wants to know where you live,” said the servant.

Mrs. Walsh gave a wrong address, not caring to receive charitable callers, who would inevitably find out that her story was a false one, and her children mythical.

At the next house she got no money; but on declaring that she had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours, was invited into the kitchen, where she was offered a chair, and a plate of meat and bread was placed before her. This invitation was rather an embarrassing one; for, thanks to her charitable neighbor, granny had eaten quite a hearty breakfast not long before. But, having declared that she had not tasted food for twenty-four hours, she was compelled to keep up appearances, and eat what was set before her. It was very hard work, and attracted the attention of the servants, who had supposed her half famished.

“You don’t seem very hungry,” said Annie, the cook.

“It’s because I’m faint-like,” muttered granny. At this moment her bag, containing the loaf of bread, tumbled on the floor.

“What’s that?” asked the cook, suspiciously.

“It’s some bread I’m goin’ to carry home to the childers,” said Mrs. Walsh, a little confused. “They was crying for something to ate when I come away.”

“Then you’d better take it home as soon as you can,” said Annie, surveying the old woman with some suspicion.

Granny was forced to leave something on her plate, nature refusing the double burden she sought to impose upon it, and went out with an uncomfortable sense of fulness. Resuming her rounds, she was repulsed at some places, at others referred to this or that charitable society, but in the end succeeded in raising twenty-five cents more in money. Fifty cents, a loaf of bread, and a little cold meat represented her gains of the morning, and with these she felt tolerably well satisfied. She had been compelled to walk up town, but now she had money and could afford to ride. She entered a Sixth Avenue car, therefore, and in half an hour or thereabouts reached the Astor House. She walked through the Park, looking about her carefully, in the hope of seeing Tom, who would certainly have fared badly if she had fallen into the clutches of the angry old woman. But Tom was nowhere visible.

So granny plodded home, and, mounting to her room, laid away the bread and meat, and, throwing herself upon the bed, indulged in a pipe. Tom was not at home, and granny began to have apprehensions that she meant to stay away longer than she had at first supposed.

“But I’ll come across her some day,” said granny, vindictively. “When I do I’ll break every bone in her body.”

The old woman lay on the bed two or three hours, and then went out, with the double purpose of investing a part of her funds in a glass of something strong, and in the hope that she might fall in with Tom. Notwithstanding the desire of vengeance, she missed her. She had not the slightest affection for the young girl who had been so long her charge, but she was used to her companionship. It seemed lonely without her. Besides, granny had one of those uncomfortable dispositions that feel lost without some one to scold and tyrannize over, and, although Tom had not been so yielding and submissive as many girls would have been under the same circumstances, Mrs. Walsh had had the satisfaction of beating her occasionally, and naturally longed for the presence of her customary victim.

So, after making the purchase she intended, granny made another visit to the Park and Printing House Square, and inspected eagerly the crowds of street children who haunt those localities as paper-venders, peddlers, and boot-blacks. But Tom, as we know, was by this time an inmate of Mrs. Merton’s boarding-house,—the home found for her by her friend, the sea-captain. This was quite out of Mrs. Walsh’s beat. She had not anticipated any such contingency, but supposed that Tom would be forced to earn her living by some of those street trades by means of which so many children are kept from starvation. It did not enter her calculations that, so soon after parting from her, Tom had also ceased to be a street Arab, and obtained a respectable home. Of course, therefore, disappointment was again her portion, and she was forced to return home and go to bed without the exquisite satisfaction of “breaking every bone in Tom’s body.”

Granny felt that she was ill-used, and that Tom was a monster of ingratitude; but on that subject there may, perhaps, be a difference of opinion.