emselves to some distant country,--to Tunbridge, or
perhaps to Ware. Polly, however, would not accede to her mother's
views. The evil must, she thought, be cured at once. "If father goes
on like this, I shall just walk straight out of the house, and marry
Moggs at once," Polly said. "Father makes no account of my name, and
so I must just look out for myself." She had not as yet communicated
these intentions to Ontario, but she was quite sure that she would be
supported in her views by him whenever she should choose to do so.

Once or twice Ontario came down to the cottage, and when he did so,
Mr. Neefit was always told of the visit. "I ain't going to keep
anything from father, mother," Polly would say. "If he chooses
to misbehave, that isn't my fault. I mean to have Mr. Moggs, and
it's only natural I should like to see him." Neefit, when informed
of these visits, after swearing that Moggs junior was a sneaking
scoundrel to come to his house in his absence, would call upon Moggs
senior, and swear with many threats that his daughter should have
nothing but what she stood up in. Moggs senior would stand quite
silent, cutting the skin on his hand with his shoemaker's knife, and
would simply bid the infuriated breeches-maker good morning, when
he left the shop. But, in truth, Mr. Moggs senior had begun to doubt.
"I'd leave it awhile, Onty, if I was you," he said. "May be, after
all, he'll give her nothing."

"I'll take her the first day she'll come to me,--money or no money,"
said Moggs junior.

Foiled ambition had, in truth, driven the breeches-maker to madness.
But there were moments in which he was softened, melancholy, and
almost penitent. "Why didn't you have him when he come down to
Margate," he said, with the tears running down his cheek, that very
evening after eating his rump-steak in Mr. Newton's rooms. The
soda-water and brandy, with a little gin-and-water after it, had
reduced him to an almost maudlin condition, so that he was unable to
support his parental authority.

"Because I didn't choose, father. It wasn't his fault. He spoke fair
enough,--though I don't suppose he ever wanted it. Why should he?"

"You might have had him then. He'd 've never dared to go back. I'd a
killed him if he had."

"What good would it have done, father? He'd never have loved me, and
he'd have despised you and mother."

"I wouldn't 've minded that," said Mr. Neefit, wiping his eyes.

"But I should have minded. What should I