When Tom had got through her unsuccessful applications for a place, it was already nearly five o’clock. She started on her way down town. Her old street life had been spent in the neighborhood of the City Hall Park. The offices of the leading daily and weekly papers may be found within a radius of a furlong from it. It is within this limit that hundreds of homeless young Arabs swarm, and struggle for a precarious living. In returning to her old life, Tom was drawn, as by a magnet, to this centre.

She walked down Fourth Avenue, and afterwards down the Bowery. It was three months since she had been in this street, which had once been so familiar to her. As she drew near the scene of her old life, she began to see familiar faces. She passed boot-blacks and newsboys whom she had once known and still remembered; but none of them appeared to recognize her. This surprised Tom at first, until she remembered what a change there was in her dress. Neatly dressed, she looked very different from the Tom who had roamed the streets in rags and tatters. She seemed to have cut adrift from her former life and from the sympathies of her old companions. This was not a pleasant thought, since she must now go back to it. Poor Tom began to regret that she had experienced anything better, since it seemed doubtful whether she would ever again be satisfied with a street life.

She did not make herself known to any of her old acquaintances, but walked slowly along till she reached the City Hall Park. She entered the inclosure and sat down on a seat. By this time she felt hungry as well as tired. She therefore purchased, before sitting down, two apples for three cents, thus diminishing her cash capital to two. The apples were large, and satisfied her appetite tolerably well. Still it was not like the dinner she would have got at Mrs. Merton’s.

Supper was provided, but it would soon be night, and she must lodge somewhere. Tom had more than once slept out, like hundreds of other street children, and not minded it; but now, after being accustomed to a good chamber and a comfortable bed, she did not feel like doing this. Besides, her clothes would be spoiled, and Tom wanted to look respectable as long as she could.

She might go back to granny, but had no disposition to do that. Whatever she might be called upon to suffer, she felt that she should be better off alone than in the power of the bad old woman who had so maltreated her.

“I wish I could earn a few pennies,” said Tom to herself. “I might buy some papers if I only had money enough.”

While she was thinking, a boot-black had been surveying her curiously. It was Mike Murphy, an old acquaintance of Tom’s. He thought he recognized her face, but her dress puzzled him. Where could Tattered Tom have procured such a stunning outfit? That was the mystery, and it made him uncertain of her identity. However, the face looked so familiar that he determined to speak.

“Is that you, Tom?” he asked.

Tom looked up, and recognised Mike at once. It seemed good to speak to an old acquaintance.

“Yes, Mike, it’s me,” said Tom, whose grammar was not yet quite faultless.

“Where’d you get them clo’es? You aint going to be married, be you?”

“Not that I know of,” said Tom.

“Where’ve you been this long time? I haven’t seen you round anywhere.”

“I’ve been livin’ up in Sixteenth Street,” said Tom. “A sailor-man took me to his sister’s, and got her to keep me.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “I had three square meals every day. I went to school too.”

“Did he buy you them clo’es?”

“Yes.”

“Are you there now?”

“No, I left to-day.”

“What for?”

“The old woman said I stole some money, and told me I must give it back or leave the house.”

“How much did you steal?” asked Mike.

“Look here, Mike Murphy,” said Tom, indignantly, “don’t you say that again!”

“Didn’t you take anything then?”

“Of course I didn’t.”

“What made her think so?”

“I don’t know. Somebody took it, I s’pose, and she thought it was me.”

“So you had to leave?”

“Yes.”

“What are you goin’ to do now?”

“I don’t know,” said Tom. “I haven’t got but two cents, and I don’t know where to sleep.”

“Where’s the old woman you used to live with?”

“I shan’t go back to her,” said Tom, firmly. “I hate her.”

“You’ve got some good clo’es,” said Mike. “I didn’t know you, at first. I thought you was a young lady.”

“Did you?” asked Tom, rather pleased.

The time had been when she did not want to look like a young lady,—when she would have preferred to be a boy. But her tastes had changed considerably since then. Something of the instinct of her sex had sprung up in her, as she was brought to a closer knowledge of more refined ways of life. She was no longer a young Arab in her feelings, as before. Three months had wrought a great change in Tom.

“If you haven’t any place to sleep, Tom,” said Mike, “you can come along of me.”

“Can I?” asked Tom. “What’ll your mother say?”

“Oh, she won’t mind. Only you’ll maybe have to sleep on the floor.”

“I don’t mind,” said Tom. “It’ll be better than sleeping in the street. Where do you live?”

“In Mulberry Street.”

“I guess I’ll get something to do to-morrow,” said Tom.

“What did you use to do?”

“Sweep the crossings sometimes. I won’t do that again. It’s too dirty.”

“It would sp’ile them nice clo’es of yours.”

“Yes,” said Tom. “Besides, I wouldn’t want Mrs. Merton, or Mary, to see me doin’ that.”

“Who’s Mary?”

“It’s her child.”

“Did you like her?”

“No, I didn’t. She hated me too.”

“Well, I’m goin’ home. Come along, Tom.”

Tom got up from her seat with alacrity, and prepared to accompany Mike. It was a great burden off her mind to think she was likely to have a shelter for the night. Perhaps something would turn up for her the next day. This thought brought back some of her old courage and confidence.

Mike Murphy’s home was neither elegant nor spacious. Mulberry Street is not an aristocratic locality, and its residents do not in general move in fashionable society. Mrs. Murphy was a retail merchant, being the proprietor of an apple-stand on Nassau, near Spruce Street. Several years’ exposure to the weather had made her face nearly as red as the apples she dealt in, and a sedentary life had enlarged her proportions till she weighed close upon two hundred pounds. In nearly all weathers she was to be found at her post, sometimes sheltered by a huge cotton umbrella, whose original color had been changed by the sun to a pale brown. Though she had not yet been able to retire from trade upon a competence, she had earned enough, with Mike’s assistance, to support a family of six children,—in Mulberry Street style, to be sure, but they had never been obliged to go to bed hungry, and the younger children had been kept at the public school.

When Mike entered, his mother was already at home. She usually closed up her business about five o’clock, and went home to get supper.

She looked up as Mike entered, and regarded his companion with some surprise.

“What young leddy have you got with you, Mike?” asked Mrs. Murphy.

“She thinks you are a young lady, Tom,” said Mike, laughing.

“Don’t you know me, Mrs. Murphy?” asked Tom, who had known Mike’s mother for several years.

“By the powers, if it aint Tom. Shure and you’ve had a rise in the world, I’m thinkin’. Why, you’re dressed like a princess!”

“Maybe I am,” said Tom; “but if I was one I’d be richer’n I am now.”

“Tom was took up by a lady,” explained Mike; “but she’s sent her away, and she’s got nothing barrin’ her clo’es. I told her you’d let her sleep here to-night, mother.”

“To be sure I will,” said the kind-hearted woman. “It isn’t much of a bed I can offer you, Tom, but it’s better than sleepin’ out.”

“I can lie on the floor,” said Tom. “I don’t mind that.”

“But why did the leddy turn you out?” inquired the apple-merchant.

Tom told her story, which Mrs. Murphy never thought of doubting.

“She’s a hard, cruel woman. I’ll say that for her, Tom dear,” said Mrs. Murphy. “But never you mind. You’re welcome to stay here, though it’s a poor place. We’re going to have some supper directly, and you must take some with us.”

“I’ve eaten supper,” said Tom.

“What did you have?”

“Two apples.”

“I don’t say nothin’ ag’in’ apples, for it’s them I live by, but tay and toast is better for supper. Biddy, toast the bread, and I’ll set the table. When a body’s tired, a cup of tay goes to the right spot, and you’ll find it so, Tom dear.”

The good-hearted woman bustled about, and set the table, while Biddy, a girl of ten, toasted a large number of slices of bread, for the young Murphys were all blessed with good appetites. The tea soon diffused a fragrant aroma about the little room. Mrs. Murphy, humble as were her means, indulged in one solitary extravagance. She always purchased the best quality of “tay,” as she called it, no matter what might be the price.

“It’s a dale chaper than whiskey,” she used to say, in extenuation of her extravagance. “It’s mate and drink to me both, and warms me up besides, when I’ve got chilled by rason of stayin’ out all day.”

There was a plate of cold meat placed on the table. This, with the tea and toast, constituted Mrs. Murphy’s evening repast.

“You can sit by me, Tom dear,” she said, her face beaming with hospitality. “It isn’t much I’ve got, but you are heartily welcome to what there is. Children, set up to the table, all of you. Mike, see that Tom has enough to ate. There’s one thing I can give you, and that’s a cup of illigant tay, that a quane might not turn up her nose at.”

In spite of the two apples, Tom made room for a fair share of Mrs. Murphy’s supper. Once more she felt that she had a home, humble enough, to be sure, but made attractive by kindness.

“I wish I could stay here,” thought Tom; and it occurred to her that she might be able to make such an arrangement with the old apple-woman, on condition of paying a certain sum towards the family expenses.