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One street upon her list remained unsearched–it was narrow, dark, and dirty;–she stopped for a moment at the corner, but a porter, heavily laden, with a sudden “By your leave, ma’am!” pushed forwards, and she was forced into the doorway of a small ironmonger’s shop. The master of the shop, who was weighing some iron goods, let the scale go up, and, after a look of surprise, said–

“You’ve lost your way, madam, I presume–be pleased to rest yourself–it is but a dark place;” and wiping a stool, on which some locks had been lying, he left Mad. de Rosier, who was, indeed, exhausted with fatigue, to rest herself, whilst, without any officious civility, after calling his wife from a back shop, to give the lady a glass of water, he went on weighing his iron and whistling.

The woman, as soon as Mad. de Rosier had drunk the water, inquired if she should send for a coach for her, or could do any thing to serve her.

The extreme good-nature of the tone in which this was spoken seemed to revive Mad. de Rosier; she told her that she was searching for an only son, whom she had for nearly two years believed to be dead: she showed the paper on which his name was written: the woman could not read–her husband read the name, but he shook his head–“he knew of no lad who answered to the description.”

Whilst they were speaking, a little boy came into the shop with a bit of small iron wire in his hand, and, twitching the skirt of the ironmonger’s coat to attract his attention, asked if he had any such wire as that in his shop. When the ironmonger went to get down a roll of wire, the little boy had a full view of Mad. de Rosier. Though she was naturally disposed to take notice of children, yet now she was so intent upon her own thoughts that she did not observe him till he had bowed several times just opposite to her.

“Are you bowing to me, my good boy?” said she–“you mistake me for somebody else; I don’t know you;” and she looked down again upon the paper, on which she had written the name of her son.

“But, indeed, ma’am, I know you,” said the little boy: “aren’t you the lady that was with the good-natured young gentleman, who met me going out of the pastry-cook’s shop, and gave me the two buns?”

Mad. de Rosier now looked in his face; the shop was so dark that she could not distinguish his features, but she recollected his voice, and knew him to be the little boy belonging to the dulcimer man.

“Father would have come again to your house,” said the boy, who did not perceive her inattention–“Father would have come to your house again, to play the tune the young gentleman fancied so much, but our dulcimer is broken.”

“Is it? I am sorry for it,” said Mad. de Rosier. “But can you tell me,” continued she to the ironmonger, “whether any emigrants lodge in the street to the left of your house?” The master of the shop tried to recollect: she again repeated the name and description of her son.

“I know a young French lad of that make,” said the little dulcimer boy.

“Do you?–Where is he? Where does he lodge?” cried Mad. de Rosier.

“I am not speaking as to his name, for I never heard his name,” said the little boy; “but I’ll tell you how I came to know him. One day lately–“

Mad. de Rosier interrupted him with questions concerning the figure, height, age, eyes, of the French lad.

The little dulcimer boy, by his answers, sometimes made her doubt, and sometimes made her certain, that he was her son.

“Tell me,” said she, “where he lodges; I must see him immediately.”

“I am just come from him, and I’m going back to him with the wire; I’ll show the way with pleasure; he is the best-natured lad in the world; he is mending my dulcimer; he deserves to be a great gentleman, and I thought he was not what he seemed,” continued the little boy, as he walked on, scarcely able to keep before Mad. de Rosier.