them. And now there was nothing but the roofs of houses, sweeping along

like a great torrent of stones and rocks. Chimney-pots fell, and tiles

flew from the roofs; but it looked to him as if they were left behind

by the roofs and the chimneys as they scudded away. There was a great

roaring, for the wind was dashing against London like a sea; but at

North Wind's back Diamond, of course, felt nothing of it all. He was in

a perfect calm. He could hear the sound of it, that was all.

By and by he raised himself and looked over the edge of his nest. There

were the houses rushing up and shooting away below him, like a fierce

torrent of rocks instead of water. Then he looked up to the sky, but

could see no stars; they were hidden by the blinding masses of the

lady's hair which swept between. He began to wonder whether she would

hear him if he spoke. He would try.

“Please, North Wind,” he said, “what is that noise?”

From high over his head came the voice of North Wind, answering him,

gently--

“The noise of my besom. I am the old woman that sweeps the cobwebs from

the sky; only I'm busy with the floor now.”

“What makes the houses look as if they were running away?”

“I am sweeping so fast over them.”

“But, please, North Wind, I knew London was very big, but I didn't know

it was so big as this. It seems as if we should never get away from it.”

“We are going round and round, else we should have left it long ago.”

“Is this the way you sweep, North Wind?”

“Yes; I go round and round with my great besom.”

“Please, would you mind going a little slower, for I want to see the

streets?”

“You won't see much now.”

“Why?”

“Because I have nearly swept all the people home.”

“Oh! I forgot,” said Diamond, and was quiet after that, for he did not

want to be troublesome.

But she dropped a little towards the roofs of the houses, and Diamond

could see down into the streets. There were very few people about,

though. The lamps flickered and flared again, but nobody seemed to want

them.

Suddenly Diamond espied a little girl coming along a street. She was

dreadfully blown by the wind, and a broom she was trailing behind her

was very troublesome. It seemed as if the wind had a spite at her--it

kept worrying her like a wild beast, and tearing at her rags. She was so

lonely there!

“Oh! please, North Wind,” he cried, “won't you help that little girl?”

“No, Diamond; I mustn't leave my work.”

“But why shouldn't you be kind to her?”

“I am kind to her. I am sweeping the wicked smells away.”

“But you're kinder to me, dear North Wind. Why shouldn't you be as kind

to her as you are to me?”

“There are reasons, Diamond. Everybody can't be done to all the same.

Everybody is not ready for the same thing.”

“But I don't see why I should be kinder used than she.”

“Do you think nothing's to be done but what you can see, Diamond, you

silly! It's all right. Of course you can help her if you like. You've

got nothing particular to do at this moment; I have.”

“Oh! do let me help her, then. But you won't be able to wait, perhaps?”

“No, I can't wait; you must do it yourself. And, mind, the wind will get

a hold of you, too.”

“Don't you want me to help her, North Wind?”

“Not without having some idea what will happen. If you break down and

cry, that won't be much of a help to her, and it will make a goose of

little Diamond.”

“I want to go,” said Diamond. “Only there's just one thing--how am I to

get home?”

“If you're anxious about that, perhaps you had better go with me. I am

bound to take you home again, if you do.”

“There!” cried Diamond, who was still looking after the little girl.

“I'm sure the wind will blow her over, and perhaps kill her. Do let me

go.”

They had been sweeping more slowly along the line of the street. There

was a lull in the roaring.

“Well, though I cannot promise to take you home,” said North Wind, as

she sank nearer and nearer to the tops of the houses, “I can promise

you it will be all right in the end. You will get home somehow. Have you

made up your mind what to do?”

“Yes; to help the little girl,” said Diamond firmly.

The same moment North Wind dropt into the street and stood, only a tall

lady, but with her hair flying up over the housetops. She put her hands

to her back, took Diamond, and set him down in the street. The same

moment he was caught in the fierce coils of the blast, and all but blown

away. North Wind stepped back a step, and at once towered in stature to

the height of the houses. A chimney-pot clashed at Diamond's feet. He

turned in terror, but it was to look for the little girl, and when he

turned again the lady had vanished, and the wind was roaring along the

street as if it had been the bed of an invisible torrent. The little

girl was scudding before the blast, her hair flying too, and behind her

she dragged her broom. Her little legs were going as fast as ever they

could to keep her from falling. Diamond crept into the shelter of a

doorway, thinking to stop her; but she passed him like a bird, crying

gently and pitifully.

“Stop! stop! little girl,” shouted Diamond, starting in pursuit.

“I can't,” wailed the girl, “the wind won't leave go of me.”

Diamond could run faster than she, and he had no broom. In a few moments

he had caught her by the frock, but it tore in his hand, and away went

the little girl. So he had to run again, and this time he ran so fast

that he got before her, and turning round caught her in his arms, when

down they went both together, which made the little girl laugh in the

midst of her crying.

“Where are you going?” asked Diamond, rubbing the elbow that had stuck

farthest out. The arm it belonged to was twined round a lamp-post as he

stood between the little girl and the wind.

“Home,” she said, gasping for breath.

“Then I will go with you,” said Diamond.

And then they were silent for a while, for the wind blew worse than

ever, and they had both to hold on to the lamp-post.

“Where is your crossing?” asked the girl at length.

“I don't sweep,” answered Diamond.

“What do you do, then?” asked she. “You ain't big enough for most

things.”

“I don't know what I do do,” answered he, feeling rather ashamed.

“Nothing, I suppose. My father's Mr. Coleman's coachman.”

“Have you a father?” she said, staring at him as if a boy with a father

was a natural curiosity.

“Yes. Haven't you?” returned Diamond.

“No; nor mother neither. Old Sal's all I've got.” And she began to cry

again.

“I wouldn't go to her if she wasn't good to me,” said Diamond.

“But you must go somewheres.”

“Move on,” said the voice of a policeman behind them.

“I told you so,” said the girl. “You must go somewheres. They're always

at it.”

“But old Sal doesn't beat you, does she?”

“I wish she would.”

“What do you mean?” asked Diamond, quite bewildered.

“She would if she was my mother. But she wouldn't lie abed a-cuddlin' of

her ugly old bones, and laugh to hear me crying at the door.”

“You don't mean she won't let you in to-night?”

“It'll be a good chance if she does.”

“Why are you out so late, then?” asked Diamond.

“My crossing's a long way off at the West End, and I had been indulgin'

in door-steps and mewses.”

“We'd better have a try anyhow,” said Diamond. “Come along.”

As he spoke Diamond thought he caught a glimpse of North Wind turning a