r mother. Her father's name was Westbrook; he was a
scene-painter, a thriftless ne'er-do-weel, whose intemperate habits had
brought them to poverty and broken his wife's heart; but in his sober
moments he was good to the child, and she certainly seemed devoted to
him."

"Oh dear, how sad it sounds, Malcolm!"

"My dear, it was far sadder in reality. Think of that lonely little
creature, with no one to guide and befriend her except the woman of the
house."

"In her rough way Mrs. Parker kept watch over the child, but she had
children of her own and a sick husband, and had to drudge and slave for
her family and lodgers from morning until night. Oh, I must tell you
her answer to a well-meaning district visitor one day, Anna. The lady
had just said very sweetly, 'It is so good for us to count our
blessings, Mrs. Parker; we are so apt to forget our thanksgivings.'"

"'Humph,' returned Mrs. Parker, 'I don't reckon that I shall take long
in counting mine--unless backaches and singing in your ears are amongst
them. But then we have got something to look forward to in t'other
world--there'll be no wash-tubs and no district visitors there, with
their texts and high-falutin' nonsense.'"

Anna laughed merrily. In her quiet way she had a strong sense of humour.

"I think I like Mrs. Parker, Malcolm."

"Verity liked her too; she always says that she owes a great deal to
her motherly care. 'I got a few cuffs sometimes,' she once said to me,
'but I daresay I deserved them, and, poor woman, she had troubles of
her own to bear. But on cold nights I can't forget how she would come
upstairs to tuck me up, and see if I were warm enough; and once, when I
could not sleep for shivering, she brought me up some hot drink, and
covered me up in an old shawl of her own;' and as long as Mrs. Parker
lived Verity never forgot her.'"

"I am beginning to feel interested in her, Malcolm."

"My dear child, if you could only hear Goliath talk on this subject
your heart would ache for many a day. Think of that poor child growing
up to womanhood in such surroundings; spending her days in a dirty,
bare studio, with only rough, dissipated men for her companions--though
to do them justice they treated her with respect and kindness. Somehow
she picked up a desultory education among them. One broken-down old
scene-painter taught her to read and write, and another, a French
artist, taught her the rudiments of French, and also to play on the
violin. 'They