had wisely taken the suggestion and departed to the end
of the hall where her daughters were standing expectantly.

"Of course the child is spoilt," she said, in an undertone.

"Why?" they asked in chorus.

"Well, she's saying good-bye to him--crying over him. I call it very
nonsensical. I came away. That sort of thing annoys me."

And in the drawing-room, mother and son were saying a long farewell
that was to last them for a few weeks. It would be some time before
she could come down from London, Mrs. Priestly had said. The tears
were falling fast down their cheeks.

"You won't love any one else but mummy, will you, Maurie?"

"Shan't love her," he had said, with a thrusting of his head towards
the door which Mrs. Bishop had just closed.

"And you'll say prayers every night and every morning?"

"Yes, mummy."

"And you'll say, 'God help mummy'"

"Will I pray for father?"

She took a deep breath as she looked above his head. He was too young
to feel the weight of the pause. It meant nothing to him. He thought
she had not heard.

"Will I pray for father?" he repeated.

"Yes," she said slowly; "pray for father, pray for him first, and
then mummy, just before you go to sleep. God bless you, my little
darling--" and in the fierce blinding passion which a mother alone
can understand, she caught him again in her arms and crushed his
yielding little body to her heart.

Such was the arrival of Master Maurice Priestly at No. 17, Wyatt
Street.

When she arrived, some three weeks after this event, Sally found a
little fair-haired boy with sad blue eyes whom at night, in the room
next to hers, she sometimes heard crying. She had mentioned this to
her mother.

"Oh, take no notice of it, Sally," she said. "It's probably a noise
he makes in his sleep."

Sally had become a welcome addition to the household. She had offered
to pay liberally for her board while she stayed there and, during
that visit, however long it should prove to be, they had been able
to dispense with the services of Miss Hatch, the music-mistress, who
came regularly every morning from ten till twelve and was a
considerable drain on the net profits of the establishment. Sally,
unconscious of the change, filled her place. From a quarter-past ten,
until half-past, her pupil was Maurice, and on the day she had spoken
to her mother about his crying, she also questioned him.

"I wasn't crying," he said proudly. "I couldn't cry."

He found it easy t