till he
returned, seized his hat and hurried from the room. On the dark, narrow
staircase he brushed against a dress which he knew must be hers. For a
moment he was tempted to pause, if only for a look at her face; but she
passed on, and was gone before he could turn.

He went out miserably into the street, and waited within view of the
entrance to the alley till she should come out. She was long before she
appeared--he guessed how those two friendless little orphans would
detain her. When she came her veil was down, and in the crowd on the
pavement he lost sight of her in a moment. Yet he knew her, and all his
resolution once more wavered, as he reflected that he was still within
reach of her voice and her smile.

He returned anxiously to the attic. The baby lay asleep on the bed, and
Tim, perched on his window seat, was crooning over a little doll.

There was a flower on the table; the scanty furniture of the room had
been set in order, and his quick eye even noticed that a rent in Tim's
frock which had caused him some concern in the morning had been neatly
mended.

Tim came and put the little doll into his hands.

"She gave it me. Will she soon come again?" said the child.

"Yes; she's sure to come again."

"You ran away; you was afraid. I wasn't."

In a strange turmoil of emotions Jeffreys resumed his writing. The
flower in the cup beside him was only a half-withered aster, yet it
seemed to him to perfume the room.

After dark the neighbour put her head into the room.

"Then you didn't see the lady?" said she.

"No; I was out."

"It's a pity. She's a angel, John. The way she sat with them poor
childer would do you good to see. I told 'er you 'ad took them, and,
bless you, 'er eyes filled with tears to think of a man doing it when
you might let them go to the work'us. Not that I wouldn't do it, John,
if I 'adn't six of my own and the mangle and not room to turn round.
And Mrs Parkes was a-saying the childer would be welcome in 'er room,
only the smells is that bad in 'er corner that there's no living in it
except for seasoned bodies. There's my Polly, you know, John, is eight,
and she would look after them now and again, when you're busy. She's a
good child, is Polly, and can write on a slate beautiful."

Jeffreys thanked her, and promised to come to an arrangement with Polly,
and went on with his work.

In due time the claims of hunger created a diversion, and he and his
infants--on