Scarcely had the shadow of his parent vanished in the gloom before Ginx's Baby piped forth a lusty protest: the street rang again. Ere long the doors at the top of the steps swung back, and a portly form stood in the light.

“Halloo! what's the matter?” (This was a general observation into space.) “Why, bless my heart, here's a child crying on the steps!”

Another form appeared.

“Is there nobody with it? Halloo! any one there?”

No answer came save from poor little Ginx, but his was decided. The two servants descended the steps and looked at the miserable boy without touching him. Then they peered into the darkness in hope that they might get a glimpse of his mother or a policeman. A rapid step sounded on the pavement and a gentleman came up to the group.

“What have we here?” he said gently.

“It's a child, Sir Charles, I found crying on the steps. I expect it's a trick to get rid of him. We are looking for a policeman to take him away.”

“Poor little fellow,” said Sir Charles, stooping to take a fair look at Ginx's Baby, “for you and such as you the policeman or the parish officers are the national guardians, and the prison or the poor-house the home..... Bring him into the Club, Smirke.”

The men hesitated a moment before executing so unwonted a demand, but Sir Charles Sterling was a man not safely to be thwarted—a late minister and a member of the committee. The child being carried into the magnificent hall of the Club, stood on its mosaic floor. From above the radiance of the gas “sunlight” streamed down over the marble pillars, and glanced on gilded cornices and panels of scagliola. A statue of the Queen looked upon him from the niche that opened to the dining-room; another of the great Puritan soldier, statesman, and ruler, with his stern massive front; and yet another, with the strong yet gentle features of the champion Free-Trader, seemed to regard him from their several corners. On the walls around were portraits of men who had striven for the deliverance of the people from ancient yokes and fetters. Of course Ginx's Baby did not see all this. He, poor boy, dazed, stood with a knuckle in his eye, while the porter, lackeys, Sir Charles Sterling, and others who strolled out of the reading-room, curiously regarded him. But any one observing the scene apart might have contrasted the place with the child—the principles and the professions whereof this grandeur was the monument and consecrated tabernacle, with this solitary atomic specimen of the material whereon they were to work. What social utility had resulted from the great movements initiated by them who erected and frequented this place? Ought they to have had, and did they still need a complement? While wonderful political changes had been wrought, and benefits not to be exaggerated won for many classes, WHAT HAD BEEN DONE FOR GINX'S BABY?

The query would not have been very ridiculous. He was an unit of the British Empire—nothing could blot out that fact before heaven! Had anything been left undone that ought to have been done, or done that had well been left undone, or were better to be undone now? Of a truth that was worth a thought.

“What's all this?” said a big Member of Parliament, a minister renowned for economy in matters financial and intellectual. “What are you doing with this youngster? I never saw such an irregularity in a Club in my life.”

“If you saw it oftener you would think more about it,” said Sir Charles Sterling. “We found him on the steps. I think he was asking for you, Glibton.”

This sally turned a laugh against the minister.

“Well,” said another, “he has come to the wrong quarter if he wants money.”

“I shouldn't wonder,” said a third, “if he were one of the new messengers at the Office of Popular Edifices. Glibton is reducing their staff.”

“If that's the case I think you have reached the minimum here, Glibton,” cried Sir Charles.

“Can't the country afford a livery?”

“Bother you all,” replied the Secretary, who was secretly pleased to be quizzed for his peculiarities—“tell us what this means. Whose 'lark' is it?”

“No lark at all,” said Sterling. “Here is a problem for you and all of us to solve. This forlorn object is representative, and stands here to-night preaching us a serious sermon. He was deserted on the Club steps—left there, perhaps, as a piece of clever irony; he might be son to some of us. What's your name, my boy?”

Ginx's Baby managed to say “Dunno!”

“Ask him if he has any name?” said an Irish ex-member, with a grave face.

Ginx's Baby to this question responded distinctly “No.”

“No name,” said the humorist; “then the author of his being must be Wilkie Collins.”

Everybody laughed at this indifferent pleasantry but our hero. His bosom began to heave ominously.

“What's to be done with him?”

“Send him to the workhouse.”

“Send him to the d——” (there may be brutality among the gods and goddesses).

“Give him to the porter.”

“No thank you, sir,” said he, promptly.

The gentlemen were turning away, when Sir Charles stopped them.

“Look here!” he said, taking the boy's arm and baring it, “this boy can hardly be called a human being. See what a thin arm he has—how flaccid and colorless the flesh seems—what an old face!—and I can scarcely feel any pulse. Good heavens, get him some wine! A few hours will send him to the d—— sure enough.... What are we to do for him, Glibton? I say again, he is only part of a great problem. There must be hundreds of thousands growing up like this child; and what a generation to contemplate in all its relations and effects!”

The gentlemen were dashed by his earnestness.

“Oh, you're exaggerating,” said Glibton; “there can't be such widespread misery. Why, if there were, the people would be wrecking our houses.”

“Ah!” replied the other, sadly, “will you wait to be convinced by that sort of thing before you believe in their misery? I assure you what I say is true. I could bring you a hundred clergymen to testify to it to-morrow morning.”

“God forbid!” said Glibton. “Good-night.”

The right honorable gentleman extinguished the subject in his own little brain with his big hat; but everywhere else the sparks are still aglow, and he, with all like him, may wake up suddenly, as frightened women in the night; to find themselves environed in the red glare of a popular conflagration. Well for them then if they are not in charge of the State machinery. What an hour will that be for hurrying to and fro with water-pipes and buckets, when proper forethought, diligence, and sacrifice would have made the building fireproof.