A New Phase of Life.  
“Mother,” said Master William Willders one night to his parent, as he sat at supper—which meal consisted of bread and milk; “he’s the jolliest old feller, that Mr Tippet, I ever came across.”
 
“I’m glad you like him, Willie,” said Mrs Willders, who was busy patching the knees of a pair of small unmentionables; “but I wish, dear, that you would not use slang in your speech, and remember that fellow is not spelt with an e-r at the end of it.”
 
“Come now, mother, don’t you go an’ get sarcastic. It don’t suit you; besides, there’s no occasion for it,—for I do my best to keep it down, but I’m so choke full of it that a word or two will spurt up now and then in spite o’ me.”
 
Mrs Willders smiled and continued her patching; Willie grinned and continued his supper.
 
“Mother,” said Willie, after an interval of silence.
 
“Well, my son?”
 
“What d’ye think the old feller—ah! I mean fellow—is up to just now?”
 
“I don’t know, Willie.”
 
“He’s inventin’ a calc’latin’ machine, as is to do anythin’ from simple addition to fractions, an’ he says if it works well he’ll carry it on to algebra an’ mathematics, up to the fizmal calc’lus, or somethin’ o’ that sort. Oh, you’ve no notion how he strains himself at it. He sits down in his shirt-sleeves at a writin’-table he’s got in a corner, an’ tears away at the little hair he has on the sides of his head (I do believe he tore it all off the top with them inventions), then he bangs up an’ seizes his tools, and shouts, ‘Look here, Willie, hold on!’ an’ goes sawin’ and chisellin’ and hammerin’ away like a steam-engine. He’s all but bu’st himself over that calc’latin’ machine, and I’m much afraid that he’ll clap Chips into the sausage-machine some day, just to see how it works. I hope he won’t, for Chips an’ I are great friends, though we’ve only bin a month together.”
 
“I hope he’s a good man,” said Mrs Willders thoughtfully.
 
“Well, I’m sure he must be!” cried Willie with enthusiasm, “for he is very kind to me, and also to many poor folk that come about him regularly. I’m gettin’ to know their faces now, and when to expect ’em. He always takes ’em into his back room—all sorts, old men and old women an’ children, most of ’em seedy enough, but some of ’em well off to look at. What he says to ’em I don’t know, but they usually come out very grave, an go away thankin’ him, and sayin’ they won’t forget his advice. If the advice is to come back soon they certainly don’t forget it! And he’s a great philosopher, too, mother, for he often talks to me about my int’lec’s. He said jist t’other day, ‘Willie,’ said he, ‘get into a habit o’ usin’ yer brains, my boy. The Almighty put us into this world well-made machines, intended to be used in all our parts. Now, you’ll find thousands of people who use their muscles and neglect their brains, and thousands of others who use their brains and neglect their muscles. Both are wrong, boy; we’re machines, lad—wonderful machines—and the machines won’t work well if they’re not used all over.’ Don’t that sound grand, mother?”
 
Willie might have received an answer if he had waited for one, but he was too impatient, and went rattling on.
 
“And who d’ye think, mother, came to see old Tippet the other day, but little Cattley, the clown’s boy. You remember my tellin’ you about little Cattley and the auction, don’t you?”
 
“Yes, Willie.”
 
“Well, he came, and just as he was goin’ away I ran out an’ asked him how the fairy was. ‘She’s very ill,’ he said, shakin’ his head, and lookin’ so mournful that I had not the heart to ask more. But I’m goin’ to see them, mother.”
 
“That’s right, my boy,” said Mrs Willders, with a pleased look; “I like to hear you talk of going to see people in distress. ‘Blessed are they that consider the poor,’ Willie.”
 
“Oh, as to that, you know, I don’t know that they are poor. Only I feel sort o’ sorry for ’em, somehow, and I’m awful anxious to see a real live fairy, even though she is ill.”
 
“When are you going?” inquired Mrs Willders.
 
“To-morrow night, on my way home.”
 
“Did you look in at Frank’s lodging in passing to-night?”
 
“Yes, I did, and found that he was in the station on duty again. It wasn’t a bad sprain, you see, an’ it’ll teach him not to go jumpin’ out of a first-floor window again.”
 
“He couldn’t help it,” said the widow. “You know his escape by the stair had been cut off, and there was no other way left.”
 
“No other way!” cried Willie; “why didn’t he drop? He’s so proud of his strength, is Blazes, that he jumped off-hand a’ purpose to show it! Ha! he’d be the better of some o’ my caution. Now, mother, I’m off to bed.”
 
“Get the Bible, then,” said Mrs Willders.
 
Willie got up and fetched a large old family Bible from a shelf, and laid it on the table before his mother, who read a chapter and prayed with her son; after which Willie gave her one of his “roystering” kisses and went to bed.
 
The lamps had been lighted for some time next night, and the shop-windows were pouring forth their bright rays, making the streets appear as light as day, when Willie found himself in the small disreputable street near London Bridge in which Cattley the clown dwelt.
 
Remembering the directions given to him by little Jim Cattley, he soon found the underground abode near the burnt house, the ruins of which had already been cleared away and a considerable portion of a new tenement erected.
 
If the stair leading to the clown’s dwelling was dark, the passage at the foot of it was darker; and as Willie groped his way carefully along, he might have imagined it to be a place inhabited only by rats or cats, had not gleams of light, and the sound of voices from sundry closed doors, betokened the presence of human beings. Of the compound smells peculiar to the place, those of beer and tobacco predominated.
 
At the farther end of this passage, there was an abrupt turn to the left, which brought the boy unexpectedly to a partially open door, where a scene so strange met his eyes that he involuntarily stood still and gazed.
 
In a corner of the room, which was almost destitute of furniture, a little girl, wan, weary, and thin, lay on a miserable pallet, with scanty covering over her. Beside her stood Cattley—not, as when first introduced, in a seedy coat and hat; but in full stage costume—with three balls on his head, white face, triangular roses on his cheeks, and his mouth extended outward and upward at the corners, by means of red paint. Little Jim sat on the bed beside ............