s; here where the clash of knives and
forks and plates mingled with the rumble of cabs and the calls of porters
and newspaper boys, the impression of activity was irresistible. Here, as
Mrs. Purchase had declared, was a practical man. Their business promised
well with all these wheels in motion.

"And now," said Mr. Joshua, as he paid the bill, "we will take the train
for Bexley, and see."

In his own heart he hoped that a visit to the Orphanage would satisfy
them. He would seek the governor or matron in charge; they would be
allowed an interview with the child, and finding him in good hands,
contented and well cared for, would shed some natural tears perhaps, but
return cheerful and reassured. This was as much as Mr. Joshua dared to
hope. While piecing together Mrs. Purchase's narrative he had been
sincerely touched--good man--by some of its details; particularly when Tom
Trevarthen struck in and related how on the second night out of port he
had been kept awake by a faint persistent knocking on the bulkhead
separating the fo'c'sle from the schooner's hold; how he had drawn his
shipmates' attention to it; how he had persuaded the skipper to uncover
one of the hatches; and how he had descended with a lantern and found poor
Myra half dead with sickness and hunger. Mr. Joshua did not understand
children; but he had a good heart nevertheless. He eyed Myra from time to
time with a sympathetic curiosity, shy and almost timid, as the train
swung out over the points, and the child, nestling down in a corner by the
window, gazed out across the murky suburbs with eyes which, devouring the
distance, regarded him not at all.

The child did not doubt. She followed with the others as he shepherded
them through the station to the train which came, as if to his call, from
among half a dozen others, all ready at hand. He was a magician,
benevolent as any in her fairy-tales, and when all was over she would
thank him, even with tears. But just now she could think only of Clem and
her journey's end. Clem!--Clem!--the train clanked out his name over and
over. Would these lines of dingy houses, factories, smoky gardens,
rubbish-heaps, broken palings, never come to an end?

They trailed past the window in meaningless procession; empty phenomena,
and as dull as they were empty. But the glorious golden certainty lay
beyond. "Just look to the poor mite!" whispered Mrs. Purchase, nudging
her husband. Myra's ears caught the word