the blows that were showered upon him by his tipsy parent, and the squalid misery of his home, Dan begged the school-sergeant to refuse the request. The father was persuaded to depart without the child.
Some days later he again appeared at the orphanage driving himself in a dilapidated jutka drawn by a wiry pony hired for the occasion. Again he was met with a refusal, in which he apparently acquiesced. Producing some tempting sweetmeats he persuaded the child to get into the jutka to eat them. No sooner had he mounted than the man whipped up the pony and dashed away towards the bazaars, the jutka swaying from side to side in imminent danger of being overturned. Nothing could be done in the way of rescue, as he had a perfect right to his own child. Notice was duly sent to the chaplain that Dan had been stolen by his own father. That same evening as the matron came out of church after evensong she felt a timid pull at her skirt. Peering down in the darkness she discovered poor little Dan, dirty, forlorn, beaten, and hungry. He clung to her and begged with tears to be allowed to return. His father had attempted to lock him in his miserable house. As soon as the drink had done its work Dan crawled out of the window and escaped. Never again did he allow himself to be decoyed away by either sweets or threats.
The inmates were not all orphans in the true sense of the word. Many had no relatives at all, some had lost one parent, and a few still possessed—to their detriment, sad to say—both parents. Four children belonging to a couple who were incorrigible beggars were admitted that they might be saved from the contamination of their wretched home. At seven years of age the girl was still running about the native bazaars as naked as the Indian children with whom she played. Within a very short period she and her three brothers were tamed and
