eet now.'

'And does he ever come here?'

'He has been--just now an' then.'

'Have you told him?'

'Why--yes, dear--I felt I had to.'

'There's no harm. You couldn't keep it a secret. But he mustn't come
whilst I'm here; you understand that, father?'

'No, no, he shan't. He shall never come, if you don't wish it.'

'Only whilst I'm here.'

'But--Clara--you'll _always_ be here.'

'Oh no! Do you think I'm going to burden you all the rest of my life? I
shall find some way of earning a living, and then I shall go and get a
room for myself.'

'Now don't--now don't talk like that!' exclaimed her father, putting
his hand on her. 'You shall do what else you like, my girl, but don't
talk about goin' away from me. That's the one thing as I couldn't bear.
I ain't so young as I was, and I've had things as was hard to go
through--I mean when the mother died and--and other things at that
time. Let you an' me stay by each other whilst we may, my girl. You
know it was always you as I thought most of, and I want to keep you by
me--I do, Clara. You won't speak about goin' away?'

She remained mute. Shadows from the firelight rose and fell upon the
walls of the half-darkened room. It was a cloudy morning; every now and
then a gust flung rain against the window.

'If you went,' he continued, huskily, 'I should be afraid myself. I
haven't told you. I didn't behave as I'd ought have done to the poor
mother, Clara; I got into drinkin' too much; yes, I did. I've broke
myself off that; but if you was to leave me--I've had hard things to go
through. Do you know the Burial Club broke up just before she died? I
couldn't get not a ha'penny! A lot o' the money was stolen. You may
think how I felt, Clara, with her lyin' there, and I hadn't got as much
as would pay for a coffin. It was Sidney Kirkwood found the money--he
did! There was never man had as good a friend as he's been to me; I
shall never have a chance of payin' what I owe him. Things is better
with me now, but I'd rather beg my bread in the streets than you should
go away. Don't be afraid, my dearest. I promise you nobody shan't come
near. You won't mind Mrs. Eagles; she's very good to the children. But
I must keep you near to me, my poor girl!'

Perhaps sit was that word of pity--though the man's shaken voice was
throughout deeply moving. For the first time since the exultant hope of
her life was blasted, Clara shed tears.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SOUP-KITCHEN

Wit