came over that child's face, and could not
help all through that afternoon going over
and over again the picture left on his memory,
by the bright effect of unexpected joy on the
little girl's face. When he returned home,
he found his slippers placed by his sitting-room
fire; and even more careful attention
paid to his fancies than was habitual in those
model lodgings. When Alice had taken the
last of his tea-things away—she had been
silent as usual till then—she stood for an
instant with the door in her hand. Mr.
Openshaw looked as if he were deep in his
book, though in fact he did not see a line;
but was heartily wishing the woman would
be gone, and not make any palaver of gratitude.
But she only said:

"I am very much obliged to you, Sir.
Thank you very much," and was gone, even
before he could send her away with a " There,
my good woman, that's enough!"

For some time longer he took no apparent
notice of the child. He even hardened his
heart into disregarding her sudden flush of
colour and little timid smile of recognition,
when he saw her by chance. But, after all,
this could not last for ever; and, having a
second time given way to tenderness, there
was no relapse. The insidious enemy having
thus entered his heart, in the guise of
compassion to the child, soon assumed the
more dangerous form of interest in the
mother. He was aware of this change of
feeling, despised himself for it, struggled
with it; nay, internally yielded to it and
cherished it, long before he suffered the
slightest expression of it, by word, action, or
look, to escape him. He watched Alice's
docile obedient ways to her stepmother;
the love which she had inspired in the
rough Norah (roughened by the wear and
tear of sorrow and years); but above all,
he saw the wild, deep, passionate affection
existing between her and her child. They
spoke little to any one else, or when any one
else was by; but, when alone together, they
talked, and murmured, and cooed, and
chattered so continually, that Mr. Openshaw first
wondered what they could find to say to
each other, and next became irritated because
they were always so grave and silent with
him. All this time, he was perpetually
devising small new pleasures for the child.
His thoughts ran, in a pertinacious way, upon
the desolate life before her; and often he
came back from his day's, work loaded with
the very thing Alice had been longing for,
but had not been able to procure. One time
it was a little chair for drawing the little
sufferer along the streets, and many an
evening that ensuing summer Mr. Openshaw
drew her along himself, regardless
of the remarks of his acquaintances. One
day in autumn he put down his newspaper,
as Alice came in with the breakfast, and
said, in as indifferent a voice as he could
assume:

"Mrs. Frank, is there any reason why we
two should not put up our horses together?"

Alice stood still in perplexed wonder.
What did he mean? He had resumed the
reading of his newspaper, as if he did not
expect any answer; so she found silence her
safest course, and went on quietly arranging
his breakfast without another word passing
between them. Just as he was leaving the
house, to go to the warehouse as usual, he
turned back and put his head into the bright,
neat, tidy kitchen, where all the women
breakfasted in the morning:

'"' You'll think of what I said, Mrs. Frank"
(this was her name with the lodgers),
"and let me have your opinion upon it
tonight."

Alice was thankful that her mother and
Norah were too busy talking together to
attend much to this speech. She determined
not to think about it at all through the day;
and, of course, the effort not to think, made
her think all the more. At night she sent up
Norah with his tea. But Mr. Openshaw almost
knocked Norah down as she was going out
at the door, by pushing past her and calling
out " Mrs. Frank! " in an impatient voice,
at the top of the stairs.

Alice went up, rather than seem to have
affixed too much meaning to his words.

"Well, Mrs. Frank," he said, " what
answer? Don't make it too long; for I have
lots of office work to get through to-night."

"I hardly know what you meant, Sir,"
said truthful Alice.

"Well! I should have thought you might
have guessed. You're not new at this sort of
work, and I am. However, I'll make it
plain this time. Will you have me to be
thy wedded husband, and serve me, and love
me, and honour me, and all that sort of
thing? Because, if you will, I will do as
muoh by you, and be a father to your child
and that's more than is put in the prayer-book.
Now, I'm a man of my word; and
what I say, I feel; and what I promise, I'll
do. Now, for your answer!"

Alice was silent. He began to make the
tea, as if her reply was a matter of perfect
indifference to him; but, as soon as that was
done, he became impatient.

"Well?" said he.

"How long, sir, may I have to think over
it?"

"Three minutes!" (looking at his watch).
"You've had two already that makes five.
Be a sensible woman, say Yes, and sit down
to tea with me, and we'll talk it over
together; for, after tea, I shall be busy; say
No " (he hesitated a moment to try and keep
his voice in the same tone), " and 1 shan't say
another word about it, but pay up a year's
rent for my rooms to-morrow, and be off.
Time's up! Yes or no?"

"If you please, sir,—you have been so good
to little Ailsie"
" There, sit down comfortably by me on the