"I SAY, Phil, you'd best get out of the way. Your mother's coming." No need to utter the warning twice. Phil, a ragged, yellow-haired boy, picked himself up from the doorstep in a moment, signified his gratitude to Fan the flower-girl by an expressive nod and wink, and scuttled down the narrow alley, and was out of sight with all the speed his thin bare legs could accomplish. Moll Dutton was approaching from the other end of the alley. A coarse, repulsive-looking woman, wearing torn and draggled garments, and carrying a huge bundle in her arms, she came staggering along, the stagger resulting, not from her burden, since the bundle, though cumbersome, was not very heavy, but from the glass or two to which she had treated herself on the strength of the excellent bargain in old clothes which she had been able to effect. Her low, receding forehead, flat face, narrow, cunning eyes, and cruel mouth told all too plainly the history of her life and character.