ct willingness, but reminded him that she had nothing save his
word to prove that he had indeed a legitimate interest in the girl.

'I can do no more than tell you that Joseph James Snowdon was my
younger son,' replied the old man simply. 'I've come back to spend my
last years in England, and I hoped--I hope still--to find my son. I
wish to take his child into my own care; as he left her to
strangers--perhaps he didn't do it willingly; he may be dead--he could
have nothing to say against me giving her the care of a parent. You've
been at expense--'

Mrs. Peckover waited with eagerness, but the sentence remained
incomplete. Again the old man's eyes strayed about the room. The
current of his thoughts seemed to change, and he said:

'You could show me those letters you spoke of--of my son's writing?'

'Of course I could,' was the reply, in the tone of coarse resentment
whereby the scheming vulgar are wont to testify to their dishonesty.

'Afterwards--afterwards. I should like to see Jane, if you'll be so
good.'

The mild voice, though often diffident, now and then fell upon a note
of quiet authority which suited well with the speaker's grave, pure
countenance. As he spoke thus, Mrs. Peckover rose, and said she would
first go upstairs just to see how things were. She was absent ten
minutes, then a little girl--Amy Hewett--came into the kitchen and
asked the stranger to follow her.

Jane had been rapidly transferred from the mattress to the bedstead,
and the room had been put into such order as was possible. A whisper
from Mrs. Peckover to Mrs. Hewett, promising remission of half a week's
rent, had sufficed to obtain for the former complete freedom in her
movements. The child, excited by this disturbance, had begun to moan
and talk inarticulately. Mrs. Peckover listened for a moment, but heard
nothing dangerous. She bade the old man enter noiselessly, and herself
went about on tip-toe, speaking only in a hoarse whisper.

The visitor had just reached the bedside, and was gazing with deep,
compassionate interest at the unconscious face, when Jane, as if
startled, half rose and cried painfully, 'Mr. Kirkwood! oh, Mr.
Kirkwood!' and she stretched her hand out, appearing to believe that
the friend she called upon was near her.

'Who is that?' inquired the old man, turning to his companion.

'Only a friend of ours,' answered Mrs. Peckover, herself puzzled and
uneasy.

Again the sick girl called 'Mr. Kirkwood!' but wit