m,
were the ashes of a dead fire that had once burned bright. This was the
woman he had loved. This was the woman he had lost. Such had been the
constancy of his imagination to her, so had Time spared her under its
withholding, that now, seeing how roughly the inexorable hand had struck
her, his soul was filled with pity and amazement.

He led her to a chair, and stood leaning on a corner of the
chimney-piece, with his head resting on his hand, and his face half
averted.

"Did you see me in the street, and show me to your child?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Is the little creature, then, a party to deceit?"

"I hope there is no deceit. I said to her, 'We have lost our way, and I
must try to find mine by myself. Go to that gentleman and tell him you
are lost. You shall be fetched by-and-by.' Perhaps you have not thought
how very young she is?"

"She is very self-reliant."

"Perhaps because she is so young?"

He asked, after a short pause, "Why did you do this?"

"O Mr. Jackson, do you ask me? In the hope that you might see something
in my innocent child to soften your heart towards me. Not only towards
me, but towards my husband."

He suddenly turned about, and walked to the opposite end of the room. He
came back again with a slower step, and resumed his former attitude,
saying:

"I thought you had emigrated to America?"

"We did. But life went ill with us there, and we came back."

"Do you live in this town?"

"Yes. I am a daily teacher of music here. My husband is a book-keeper."

"Are you--forgive my asking--poor?"

"We earn enough for our wants. That is not our distress. My husband is
very, very ill of a lingering disorder. He will never recover--"

"You check yourself. If it is for want of the encouraging word you spoke
of, take it from me. I cannot forget the old time, Beatrice."

"God bless you!" she replied, with a burst of tears, and gave him her
trembling hand.

"Compose yourself. I cannot be composed if you are not, for to see you
weep distresses me beyond expression. Speak freely to me. Trust me."

She shaded her face with her veil, and after a little while spoke calmly.
Her voice had the ring of Polly's.

"It is not that my husband's mind is at all impaired by his bodily
suffering, for I assure you that is not the case. But in his weakness,
and in his knowledge that he is incurably ill, he cannot overcome the
ascendancy of one idea. It preys upon him, embitters every