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212 "Tell me her name, for God's sake, man!" said Maxwell, stamping with impatience.

"No, no. Mister Maxwell; she's a good girl, she is—I don't like that sort of thing—she's a good girl, and you must leave her alone."

"Confound it. Levy, stop your infernal—no, no, I beg your pardon—there, you're a good fellow, and mean well—I respect you for it, but you mistake my meaning."

"Oh, it's all right, is it, Mister Maxwell? Well, you're a gentleman, and I don't believe you'd do a dirty thing. Her name is Tolboysh—Tolboysh."

"Then she and her mother are old and intimate friends of ours, and they are advertised for in to-day's Times. For God's sake let us go to them!"

"You don't say so! Ve'l now, only to think! Come along with me—come along with me!"

And the good-natured little Jew led the way to the wretched apartment dignified by the title of "Artistes' Room."

It was a square whitewashed room, furnished with a deal table, a small cracked looking-glass, and half-a-dozen Windsor chairs; a pot of coarse rouge with a hare's foot stood upon the mantelpiece, and a well-filled subscription list for an injured acrobat hung upon the wall. The room was strewn with comic hats, banjoes, wigs, and other properties in immediate use by the performers. Poor little Emmie lay on two chairs, nearly insensible, while the vulgar big-voiced woman (who had a big heart too) was bathing a wound in her forehead with a motherly tenderness which would have atoned for her