We pass over two months, in which nothing of striking interest occurred to our heroine, or her affectionate relative, who continued to mourn her loss with more of anger than of sorrow. My readers may be interested to know how far Tom has improved in this interval. I am glad to say that she has considerably changed for the better, and is rather less of an Arab than when she entered the house. Still Mrs. Merton, on more than one occasion, had assured her intimate friend and gossip, Miss Betsy Perkins, that Tom was “a great trial,” and nothing but her promise to her brother induced her to keep her.

Tom was, however, very quick and smart. She learned with great rapidity, when she chose, and was able to be of considerable service in the house before and after school. To be sure she was always getting into hot water, and from time to time indulged in impish freaks, which betrayed her street-training. At school, however, she learned very rapidly, and had already been promoted into a class higher than that which she entered. If there was one thing that Tom was ashamed of, it was to find herself the largest and oldest girl in her class. She was ambitious to stand as well as other girls of her own age, and, with this object in view, studied with characteristic energy, and as a consequence improved rapidly.

She did not get along very well with Mary Merton. Mary was languid and affected, and looked down scornfully upon her mother’s hired girl, as she called her; though, as we know, money was paid for Tom’s board. Tom did not care much for her taunts, being able to give as good as she sent; but there was one subject on which Mary had it in her power to annoy her. This was about her defective education.

“You don’t know any more than a girl of eight,” said Mary, contemptuously.

“I haven’t been to school all my life as you have,” said Tom.

“I know that,” said Mary. “You were nothing but a beggar, or rag-picker, or something of that kind. I don’t see what made my uncle take you out of the street. That was the best place for you.”

“I wish you had to live with granny for a month,” retorted Tom. “It would do you good to get a lickin’ now and then.”

“Your grandmother must have been a very low person,” said Mary, disdainfully.

“That’s where you’re right,” said Tom, whose affection for granny was not very great.

“I’m glad I haven’t such a grandmother. I should be ashamed of it.”

“She wasn’t my grandmother. She only called herself so,” said Tom.

“I’ve no doubt she was,” said Mary, “and that you are just like her.”

“Say that again, and I’ll punch your head,” said Tom, belligerently.

As Mary knew that Tom was quite capable of doing what she threatened, she prudently desisted, but instead taunted her once more with her ignorance.

“Never mind,” said Tom, “wait a while and I’ll catch up with you.”

Mary laughed a spiteful little laugh.

“Hear her talk!” she said. “Why, I’ve been ever so far in English; besides, I am studying French.”

“Can’t I study French too?”

“That would be a great joke for a common street girl to study French! You’ll be playing the piano next.”

“Why not?” asked Tom, undauntedly.

“Maybe your granny, as you call her, had a piano.”

“Perhaps she did,” said Tom; “but it was to the blacksmith’s to be mended, so I never saw it.”

Tom was not in the least sensitive on the subject of granny, and however severe reflections might be indulged in upon granny’s character and position, she bore them with equanimity, not feeling any particular interest in the old woman.

Still she did occasionally feel a degree of curiosity as to how granny was getting along in her absence. She enjoyed the thought that Mrs. Walsh, no longer being able to rely upon her, would be compelled to forage for herself.

“I wonder what she’ll do,” thought Tom. “She’s such a lazy old woman that I think she’ll go round beggin’. Work don’t agree with her constitution.”

It so happened that granny, though in her new vocation she made frequent excursions up town, had never fallen in with Tom. This was partly because Tom spent the hours from nine to two in school, and it was at this time that granny always went on her rounds. But one Saturday forenoon Tom was sent on an errand some half a mile distant. As she was passing through Eighteenth Street her attention was drawn to a tall, ill-dressed figure a few feet in advance of her. Though only her back was visible, Tom remembered something peculiar in granny’s walk.

“That’s granny,” soliloquized Tom, in excitement; “she’s out beggin’, I’ll bet a hat.”

The old woman carried a basket in one hand, for the reception of cold victuals, for, though she preferred money, provisions were also acceptable, and she had learned from experience that there were some who refrained from giving money on principle, but would not refuse food.

Tom was not anxious to fall into the old woman’s clutches. Still she felt like following her up, and hearing what she had to say.

She had not long to wait.

Granny turned into the area of an English basement house, and rang the basement bell.

Tom paused, and leaned her back against the railing, in such a position that she could hear what passed.

A servant answered the bell.

“What do you want?” she asked, not very ceremoniously.

“I’m a poor widder,” whined granny, “with five small children. They haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday. Can’t you give me something? and may the Lord bless you!”

“She knows how to lie,” thought Tom. “So she’s got five small children!”

“You’re pretty old to have five small children,” said the servant, suspiciously.

“I aint so old as I look,” said Mrs. Walsh. “It’s bein’ poor and destitoot that makes me look old before my time.”

“Where’s your husband?”

“He’s dead,” said granny. “He treated me bad; he used to drink, and then bate me and the children.”

“You look as if you drank, yourself.”

“I’d scorn the action,” said granny, virtuously. “I never could bear whiskey.”

“Aint she doin’ it up brown?” thought Tom. “Haven’t I seen her pourin’ it down though?”

“Give me your basket,” said the servant.

“Can’t you give me some money,” whined granny, “to help pay the rint?”

“We never give money,” said the servant.

She went into the kitchen, and Shortly returned with some cold meat and bread. Granny opened it to see what it contained.

“Haven’t you got any cold chicken?” she asked, rather dissatisfied.

“She’s got cheek,” thought Tom.

“If you’re not satisfied with what you’ve got, you needn’t come again.”

“Yes,” said granny, “I’m satisfied; but my little girl is sick, and can’t bear anything but chicken, or maybe turkey.”

“Then you must ask for it somewhere else,” said the servant. “We haven’t got any for you here.”

Having obtained all she was likely to get, granny prepared to go.

Tom felt that she, too, must start, for there might be danger of identification. To be sure she was now well-dressed,—quite as well as the average of girls of her age. The cap and jacket, indeed all that had made her old name of “Tattered Tom” appropriate, had disappeared, and she was very different in appearance from the young Arab whom we became acquainted with in the first chapter. In other respects, as we know, Tom had not altered quite so much. There was considerable of the Arab about her still, though there was a prospect of her eventually becoming entirely tamed.

Granny just glanced at the young girl, whose back only was visible to her, but never thought of identifying her with her lost grand-daughter. Sometimes, however, she had obtained money from compassionate school-girls, and it struck her that there might be a chance in this quarter.

She advanced, and tapped Tom on the shoulder.

“Little gal,” she dolefully said, “I’m a poor widder with five small children. Can’t you give me a few pennies? and may the Lord reward you!”

Tom was a little startled, but quite amused, by this application from granny. She knew there was danger in answering; but there was a fascination about danger, and she thought that, even if identified, she could make her escape.

“Where do you live?” she asked, trying to disguise her voice, and looking down.

“No. 417 Bleecker Street,” said granny, at random, intentionally giving the wrong address.

“I’ll“I’ll get my aunt to come round to-morrow and see you,” said Tom.

“Give me a few pennies now,” persisted granny, “to buy some bread for my children.”

“How many have you got?”

“Five.”

It was very imprudent, but Tom obeyed an irresistible impulse, and said, “Isn’t one of them named Tom?” and she looked up in her old way.

Granny bent over eagerly, and looked in her face. She had noticed something familiar in the voice, but the dress had prevented her from suspecting anything. Now it flashed upon her that the rebellious Tom was in her clutches.

“So it’s you, is it?” she said, with grim delight, clutching Tom by the arm. “I’ve found you at last, you trollop! Come along with me! I’ll break every bone in your body!”

Tom saw that she had incautiously incurred a great peril; but she had no idea of being dragged away unresisting. She was quick-witted, and saw that, if she chose to deny all knowledge of the old woman, granny would find it hard to substantiate her claims.

“Stop that, old woman!” she said, without the least appearance of fear. “If you don’t let go, I’ll have you arrested!”

“You will, will you?” exclaimed granny, giving her a shake viciously. “We’ll see about that. Where’d you get all them good clothes from? Come along home.”

“Let me alone!” said Tom. “You’ve got nothing to do with me.”

“Got nothing to do with you? Aint I your granny?”

“You must be crazy,” said Tom, coolly. “My grandmother don’t go round the streets, begging for cold victuals.”

“Do you mean to say I’m not your granny?” demanded the old woman, astounded.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Tom, coolly. “You’d better go home to your five small children in Bleecker Street.”

“O you trollop!” muttered granny, giving her a violent shaking; which reminded Tom of old times in not the most agreeable manner.

“Come, old woman, that’s played out!” said Tom. “You’d better stop that.”

“You’re my gal, and I’ve a right to lick you,” said Mrs. Walsh.

“I’ve got nothing to do with you.”

“Come along!” said granny, attempting to drag Tom with her.

But Tom made a vigorous resistance, and granny began to fear that she had undertaken rather a hard task. The distance from Eighteenth Street to the tenement house which she called home was two miles, probably, and it would not be very easy to drag Tom that distance against her will. A ride in the horse-cars was impracticable, since she had no money with her.

The struggle was still going on, when Tom all at once espied a policeman coming around the corner. She did not hesitate to take advantage of his opportune appearance.

“Help! Police!” exclaimed Tom, in a loud voice.

This sudden appeal startled granny, whose associations with the police were not of the most agreeable nature, and she nearly released her hold. She glared at Tom in speechless rage, foreseeing that trouble was coming.

“What’s the matter?” asked the officer, coming up, and regarding the two attentively.

“I think this woman must be crazy,” said Tom. “She came up and asked me for a few pennies, and then grabbed me by the arm, saying she was my granny. She is trying to drag me home with her.”

“What have you to say to this?” demanded the policeman.

“She’s my gal,” said granny, doggedly.