GOOD LUCK

BY

MRS. L. T. MEADE

Author of Polly, A Sweet Girl Graduate, Etc. 

M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY

CHICAGO ------------ NEW YORK

1896

GOOD LUCK

CHAPTER I. 

Amongst the crowd of people who were waiting in the Out-Patients'Department of the London Hospital on a certain foggy day toward thelatter end of November might have been seen an old cherry-cheekedwoman. She had bright blue eyes and firm, kindly lips. She was alittle woman, slightly made, and her whole dress and appearance weresomewhat old-fashioned. In the first place, she was wonderfullypretty. Her little face looked something like a russet apple, so clearwas her complexion and so bright and true the light in her eyes. Herhair was snow-white, and rather fluffy in texture; it surrounded herforehead like a silver halo, adding to the picturesque effect of applecheeks and deep blue eyes. Her attire was quaint and old-fashioned. She wore a neat black dress, made without the least attempt atornament; round her neck was a snowy kerchief of somewhat coarse butperfectly clean muslin; over her shoulders a little black shawl wasfolded corner-ways, and pinned neatly with a large black-headed pin ather breast. A peep of the snowy handkerchief showed above the shawl;the handkerchief vied with the white of her hair. On her head was adrawn black silk bonnet with a tiny border of white net inside. Herhands were clothed in white cotton gloves. She stood on the borders ofthe crowd, one of them, and yet apart from them, noticeable to everyonepresent by her pretty, dainty neatness, and by the look of health whichto all appearance she possessed. This had evidently been her firstvisit to the Out-Patients' Department. Some _habitués_ of the placeturned and stared at her, and one or two women who stoodnear--burdened, pallid, ill-looking women--gave her a quick glance ofenvy, and asked her with a certain show of curiosity what ailed her. 

"It's my hand, dear, " was the reply. "It pains awful--right up to theshoulder. "

"It's rheumatis you've got, you poor thing, " said one of the women whohad addressed her. 

"No, I don't think it's exactly that, " was the reply; "but the doctor'll tell. I can't hold my needle with the pain; it keeps me awake o'nights. Oh, we must all have our share, " she added cheerfully; "but efit were the will of the Almighty, I'd rayther not have my share o' painin my right hand. "

"You does needlework fer a living, I suppose?" said a man who stoodnear. 

"Yes. I only 'opes to the Lord that my working hand isn't going to betaken from me--but there, I'll soon know. "

She smiled brightly at these words, and addressed one of her neighborswith regard to the state of that neighbor's baby--the child wasevidently suffering from ophthalmia, and could scarcely open its eyes. 

It was cold in the out-patients' waiting-room, and the crowd becameimpatient and anxious, each for his or her turn to see the doctors whowere in attendance. At last the little woman with the white hair wasadmitted to the consulting-room. She was shown in by a dresser, andfound herself face to face with the doctor. He said a few words toher, asked her some questions with regard to her symptoms, looked atthe hand, touched the thumb and forefinger, examined the palm of thehand very carefully, and then pronounced his brief verdict. 

"You are suffering from what is equivalent to writers' cramp, my goodwoman, " he said. 

"Lor', sir, " she interrupted, "I respec'fully think you must bemistook. I never take a pen in my 'and oftener nor twice a year. Iaint a schollard, sir. "

"That don't matter, " was the reply; "you use your needle a good deal. "

"Of course, and why shouldn't I?"

"How many hours a day do you work?"

"I never count the hours, sir. I work all the time that I've got. Themore I work, the more money there be, you understand. "

"Yes, I quite understand. Well, you must knock it off. Here! I shallorder you a certain liniment, which must be rubbed into the hand two orthree times a day. "

"But what do you mean by knocking it off, sir?"

"What I say--you must stop needlework. Johnson, " continued Dr. Graves, raising his eyes and looking at the dresser, "send in another patient. "He rose as he spoke. 

"I am sorry for you, my poor woman, " he said, "but that hand ispractically useless. At your age, there is not the most remote chanceof recovery. The hand will be powerless in a few months' time, whatever you do; but if you spare it--in short, give it completerest--it may last a little longer. "

"And do you mean, sir, that I'm never to do sewing again?"

"I should recommend you to knock it off completely and at once; by sodoing you will probably save yourself a good deal of suffering, and thedisease may not progress so rapidly--in any case, the power to sew willsoon leave you. Use the liniment by all means, take care of yourhealth, be cheerful. Good-morning. "

The doctor accompanied the little woman to the door of theconsulting-room; he opened the door for her, and bowed as she passedout. He treated her almost as if she were a lady, which in very truthshe was in every sense of the word. But she did not notice hispoliteness, for his words had stunned her. She walked slowly, with adazed look in her eyes, through the crowd of people who were waiting tobe admitted to the different physicians, and found herself in the openstreet. Her name was Patience Reed, she was sixty-eight years of age, and was the grandmother of six orphan children. 

"Good Lord, what do it mean?" she murmured as she walked quicklythrough the sloppy, dark, disagreeable streets. "I'm to lose the powerof this 'and, and I'm not to do any more needlework. I don't believeit's true. I don't believe that doctor. I'll say nothing to Alisonto-day. Good Lord, I don't believe for a moment you'd afflict me inthis awful sort of way!"

She walked quickly. She had by nature a very light and cheerful heart;her spirit was as bright and cheery as her appearance. She picked upher courage very soon, stepped neatly through the miry, slipperystreets, and presently reached her home. Mrs. Reed and the sixgrandchildren lived in a model lodging-house in a place called SparrowStreet, off Whitechapel Road. The house possessed all the new sanitaryimprovements, a good supply of water was laid on, the rooms were wellventilated, the stoves in the little kitchens burned well, the rentswere moderate, there was nothing at all to complain of in the home. Mrs. Reed was such a hearty, genial, hard-working woman that she wouldhave made any home bright and cheerful. She had lived in Whitechapelfor several years, but her work lay mostly in the West End. Shebelonged to the old-fashioned order of needlewomen. She could do themost perfect work with that right hand which was so soon to be useless. Machine-made work excited her strongest contempt, but work of the bestorder, the finest hand-made needlework, could be given over to her carewith perfect satisfaction. She had a good connection amongst the WestEnd shops, and had year after year earned sufficient money to bring upthe six orphan children comfortably and well. Alison, the eldest girl, was now seventeen, and was earning her own living in a shop near by. David was also doing something for himself, but the four youngerchildren were still dependent on Grannie. They were all like her asregards high spirits, cleanliness, and a certain bright way of lookingat life. 

"I'll not be discouraged, and I'll not believe that doctor, " shemurmured, as she mounted the long flight of stairs which led to thefifth floor. "Aint I always 'ad good luck all the days o' a longlife?" She reached her own landing at last, panting a little forbreath as she did so. She opened her hall door with a latch-key andentered the kitchen. The kitchen was absolutely neat, the stove shonelike a looking-glass, the dinner was cooking in the oven, and the tableround which the entire family were soon to dine already wore its coarsewhite cloth. 

"There, I'm not going to murmur, " said the old woman to herself. 

She went into her bedroom, took off her shawl, shook it out, folded itneatly, and put it away. She took off her bonnet and dusted it, pinnedit into an old white cambric handkerchief, and laid it beside the shawlon a little shelf. Her white gloves and white handkerchief shared thesame attention. Then she brushed her white hair, put on a neat cap, and returned to the kitchen. 

Ten minutes afterward this kitchen was full of noise, life, andconfusion. The four younger children had come back from Board school. Harry, the eldest boy, had rushed in from a bookseller's near by, andAlison, who served behind a counter in one of the shops in Shoreditch, had unexpectedly returned. 

Alison was a very tall and pretty girl. She had dark blue eyes and anupright carriage; her hair was golden with some chestnut shades in it. She had a clear complexion like her grandmother's, and firm lips, witha sweet expression. As a rule she had a cheerful face, but to-day shelooked anxious. Grannie gave her one quick glance, and guessed at oncethat something was troubling her. 

"Now, I wonder what's up?" she thought. "Well, I shan't burden thechild with my troubles to-day. "

"Come, " she said in a hearty voice, "sit you all down in your places. Kitty, my girl, say your grace. That's right, " as the child folded herhands, closed her eyes, raised her piping voice, and pronounced a gracein rhyme in a sing-song tone. 

The moment the grace was finished a huge potato pie made its appearanceout of the oven, and the meal--good, hearty, and nourishing--began. Grannie helped all the children. She piled the daintiest bits onAlison's plate, watching the girl without appearing to do so as sheplayed with her dinner. 

"Come, Ally, you are not eating, " said Grannie. "This will never do. It's a real pleasure to have you back in the middle of the day, and youmust show it by making a good meal. Ah, that's better. Help yoursister to some bread, David. "

David was between fifteen and sixteen years of age, a fine well-grownlad. He looked attentively at Alison, opened his lips as if to saysomething, caught a warning glance from her eyes, and was instantlysilent. Alison forced herself to eat some of the nourishing pie, thenshe looked full at Grannie. 

"By the way, Grannie, " she said, "you were to see the doctor at theLondon Hospital this morning, were you not?"

"Yes, child; what about it? I'll have a piece of bread, David, if youwill cut it for me. "

David did so. Alison detected some concealment in Grannie's voice, andpursued her inquiries. 

"What did he say?" she asked. 

"Oh, what didn't he say. Nothing special--the old kind of story. Inever thought much of plaguing a doctor for a common sort of thing likethis. I'm to rub the hand with liniment three times a day. There'sthe bottle on that shelf. I 'spect I'll be all right in a week or afortnight. Now, children, hurry up with your dinner; you'll have to beoff to school in less than ten minutes, so there's no time to lose. "

The children began to eat quickly. Alison and David again exchangedglances. Harry suddenly pushed back his chair. 

"You say your grace before you go, " said Grannie, fixing him with herbright blue eyes. 

He blushed a little, muttered a word or two, and then left the room. 

"Harry is a good lad, " said the old lady when he had gone, "but he isgetting a bit uppish. He's a masterful sort. He aint like you, Dave. "

"I am masterful in my own way, " answered David. 

He crossed the room, bent over the little old woman, and kissed her onthe forehead. 

"Harry and I will be a bit late to-night, " he said. "We've joined aboys' club in Bethnal Green. "

"A club?" said Grannie. "You're young to be out at nights by yourself. What sort of club?"

"Oh, It's a first-rate sort. It has been opened by a good man. He's aright down jolly fellow, though he is a swell. There's boxing and allkinds of good games going on there. "

"It's all right, Grannie, " interrupted Alison. "Boys must grow intomen, " she added, in a quick voice. 

"Dear me, " answered the old woman, "I don't know nothing, I suppose!When I was young, boys in their teens stayed at home. But there! youare a good lad, Dave, and I'll trust you to keep Harry out of mischief. "

"Harry is well enough, Grannie, if you'd only trust him. "

"Well, I suppose I must. Give me a kiss, Dave, and be off. Children, loves, what are you pottering about for?"

"We're ready to go now, Grannie, " said the little ones. 

They shouldered their bags, put on their hats, and left the room withconsiderable clatter, only first of all each small pair of legs madefor Grannie's chair, each rosy pair of lips bestowed a vigorous kissupon her apple-blossom cheeks. She patted them on their shoulders, smiled at them with happy eyes full of love; and they rushed off toschool, grumbling a little at her quick, abrupt ways, but loving herwell deep down in their hearts. 

Alison stood up and began to put away the dinner things. Alison andMrs. Reed were now alone. The old woman looked anxiously at the girl. Alison's figure was very slight and graceful. She wore her shop dress, too, a neat black alpaca. The young ladies in the shops in HighStreet, Shoreditch, could not afford black silk, but the shop inquestion was a good one, and black alpaca, neatly made, had quite asgood an effect. Alison's hair was put up stylishly on her head. Shewore a little bit of cheap lace round her throat, and a bit of the samecame from under the neat wrists of her dress. Two or three smallchrysanthemums were pinned at her bosom. Grannie thought her quite thelady. 

"I wish, child, you wouldn't slave yourself!" she said at lastimpatiently. "What's the old woman for if it isn't to wash up and putin order? and I'm quite certain you ought to be back at the shop bynow. "

"I'm not going back, " said Alison, in a low tone. 

Grannie had guessed this from the first. She did not speak at all fora minute, then she chose to dally with the evil tidings. 

"It's a holiday you are having most like, " she said. "I didn't knowthey gave 'em at this time of the year, but I'm real glad. I expectyou let Jim Hardy know. He'll be sure to be round bimeby when hiswork's over, and you'd like the kitchen to yourselves, wouldn't you?"

"No, Grannie, no, " said Alison abruptly. "There's no Jim for me anymore, and there's no work, and--and--I'm in _trouble_--I'm in trouble. "

She crossed the room impulsively, went on her knees, swept her twoyoung arms round Grannie's frail figure, laid her head on the littlewoman's sloping shoulder, and burst into tears. 

Grannie was wonderfully comforting and consoling. She did not expressthe least surprise. She patted Alison on her cheek. She allowed thegirl to grasp her painful right hand and swollen arm without a word ofprotest. 

"There, lovey, there, cry your heart out, " she exclaimed. "You 'a'lost your situation. Well, you aint the first; you'll soon getanother, dearie, and you'll be a rare bit of comfort to me at home fora few days. There, set down close to me, darlin', and tell meeverythink. Wot's up, my pretty, wot's wrong?"

"I thought I wouldn't tell you, " said Alison, stopping to wipe hertears away, "but I can't keep it back. They have accused me in theshop of stealing a five-pound note out of the till. Yes, Grannie, nowonder you open your eyes. It is true; I am accused of being a thief. They are all sure that I have done it. A five-pound note is missing;and you know how Mr. Shaw has sometimes trusted me, and sometimes, whenhe has been very busy, he has allowed me to go to the desk and open thetill and take out change. Well, that was what happened to-day. Acustomer came in and asked Mr. Shaw to change a five-pound note forhim, and Mr. Shaw went to the till to get the change, and then he shutit up, but he left the key in the lock, meaning to get back to hisplace at the desk in a minute; but business kept him, and I was thevery next person to go to the till. I locked it after I had taken outthe change, and gave him the key. He went back in a minute or two totake out the money to carry to the bank, and the five-pound note wasmissing. He asked me out sharp if I had taken it--you know how red Iget when anyone suspects me. I felt myself blushing awfully, and thenthe other girls stopped working and the men, even Jim, stared at me, and I blushed hotter and hotter every minute. Then Mr. Shaw said: 'Youwere overcome by temptation, Alison Reed, and you took the money; butgive it back to me now at once, and I'll promise to forgive you, andsay nothing more about it. '

"Oh, I was so angry, and I said they might search me, and Mr. Shaw gotangry then, and he got one of the girls to feel me all over and to turnmy pockets inside out, and he called himself real kind not to get inthe police. Oh, Grannie, of course they couldn't find it on me, but Iwas searched there in the shop before everyone. How am I ever to getover the shame? I was nearly mad with passion, and I gave notice onthe spot, and here I am. I told Mr. Shaw that I would never enter hisshop again until I was cleared, and I mean to keep my word. 

"Mr. Shaw seemed more angry with me for giving notice than he was atthe loss of the note. He said he was certain I took it, for no oneelse could, and that I had hid it somewhere, and that I was afraid tostay, and he said he wouldn't give me any character. So here I am, Grannie. I have lost my eight shillings a week, and I have lost mycharacter, and I am suspected of being a thief--here I am, good fornothing. I have just got my neat shop dress and that is all. "

"And does Jim Hardy know?" asked Grannie. 

"He was in the shop, of course, and heard everything. I saw he wantedto speak, but they wouldn't let him; if he asks me again to be hiswife, I shall say 'no' to him. I never was quite certain whether I'ddo right or wrong in marrying him, but now I'm positive. Jim's a rightgood fellow, but he shan't ever have it to say that his wife wasaccused of theft. I'm going to refuse him, Grannie. I suppose I'llbear all this as well as another. I'm young, anyway, and you believein me, dont you?"

"Believe in you? of course!" said Mrs. Reed. "I never heard of such ashameful thing in all my life. Why, you are as honest as the day. Ofcourse that note will be found, and Mr. Shaw, who knows your value, will ask you to go back fast enough. It 'll be all right, that itwill. I know what I'll do, I'll go straight to the shop and speakabout it. I'm not going to stand this, whoever else is. It aint aslight thing, Alison; it aint the sort of thing that a girl can getover. There are you, only seventeen, and so pretty and like a reallady. Yes, you are; you needn't pertend you aint. Me and my peoplewere always genteel, and you take after us. I'll see to it. Youshan't be accused of theft, my dear, ef I can help it. "

"But you can't help it, Grannie dear. Whatever you say they won'tbelieve you. There is a girl I hate at the shop, and only that I knowit is impossible, I could believe that she had a finger in the pie. Her name is Louisa Clay. She is rather handsome, and at one time weused to be friends, but ever since Jim and I began to keep company shehas looked very black at me. I think she has a fancy that Jim wouldhave taken to her but for me; anyhow, I could not help seeing howdelighted she looked when I went out of the shop. Oh, let it be, Grannie; what is the use of interfering? You may talk yourself hoarse, but they won't believe you. "

"Believe me or not, Mr. Shaw has got to hear what I say, " answered theold woman. "I am not going to see my girl slighted, nor falselyaccused, nor her good name taken from her without interfering. It isno use talking, Alison; I will have my way in this matter. "

Grannie rose from her chair as she spoke. Her cheeks were quiteflushed new, her eyes were almost too bright, and her poor hand achedand ached persistently. Alison, who had been sitting on the floorshedding tears now and then, rose slowly, walked to the window, andlooked out. She was feeling half stunned. She was by nature a verybright, happy girl. Until this moment things had gone well with her inlife. She was clever, and had carried all before her at the Boardschool. She was also pretty, and, as Grannie expressed it, "genteel. "She had got a good post in a good shop, and until to-day had beengiving marked satisfaction. Her earnings were of great value to thelittle home party, and she was likely before long to have a rise. Mr. Shaw, the owner of the haberdasher's shop in which she worked, talkedof making Alison his forewoman before long. She had a stylishappearance. She showed off his mantles and hats to advantage; she hada good sharp eye for business; she was very civil and obliging; she wonher way with all his customers; there was not a girl in the shop whocould get rid of remnants like Alison; in short, she was worth morethan a five-pound note to him, and when she was suddenly accused oftheft, in his heart of hearts he was extremely sorry to lose her. Alison was too happy up to the present moment not to do her workbrightly and well. 

The foreman in Shaw's shop was a young man of about four-and-twenty. His name was Hardy. He was a handsome fellow; he had fallen in lovewith Alison almost from the first moment he had seen her. A week agohe had asked her to be his wife; she had not yet given him her answer, but she had long ago given him her heart. 

Now everything was changed; a sudden and very terrible blow had fallenon the proud girl. Her pride was humiliated to the very dust. She hadheld her head high, and it was now brought low. She resolved never tolook at Hardy again. Nothing would induce her to go back to the shop. Oh, yes, Grannie might go to Mr. Shaw and talk as much as she liked, but nothing would make matters straight now. 

Mrs. Reed was very quick about all she said and did. She was tiredafter her long morning of waiting in the Out-Patients' Department ofthe London Hospital, but mere bodily fatigue meant very little to her. One of her nurslings--the special darling of her heart--was humiliatedand in danger. It was her duty to go to the rescue. She put on herblack bonnet and neat black shawl, encased her little hands once againin her white cotton gloves, and walked briskly through the kitchen. 

"I'm off, Ally, " she said. "I'll be back soon with good news. "

Then she paused near the door. 

"Ef you have a bit of time you might go on with some of theneedlework, " she said. 

She thought of the hand which ached so sorely. 

"Yes, Grannie, " replied Alison, turning slowly and looking at her. 

"You'll find the basket in the cupboard, love. I'm doing thefeather-stitching now; don't you spoil the pattern. "

"No, Grannie, " answered the girl. Then she added abruptly, her lipsquivering: "There aint no manner of use in your going out and tiringyourself. "

"Use or not, I am going, " said Mrs. Reed. 

"By the way, if Jim should happen to come in, be sure you keep him. Ihave a bit of a saveloy in the cupboard to make a flavor for his tea. Don't you bother with that feather-stitching if Jim should be here. "

"He won't be here, " said Alison, compressing her lips. 

Mrs. Reed pottered down the long steep flight of steps, and soon foundherself in the street. The fog had grown thicker than ever. It wasvery dense indeed now. It was so full of sulphuric acid that itsmarted the eyes and hurt the throats and lungs of the unfortunatepeople who were obliged to be out in it. Grannie coughed as shethreaded her way through the well-known streets. 

"Dear, dear, " she kept muttering under her breath, "wot an evil worldit is! To think of a young innocent thing being crushed in that sortof cruel way! Wot do it mean? Of course things must be set right. I'll insist on that. I aint a Reed for nothing. The Reeds arewell-born folks, and my own people were Phippses, and they werewell-born too. And as to the luck o' them, why, 'twas past tellin'. It don't do for one who's Phipps and Reed both, so to speak, to allowherself to be trampled on. I'll soon set things straight. I've gotsperrit, wotever else I aint got. "

She reached Shaw's establishment at last. It was getting well into theafternoon, and for some reason the shop was more full than usual. Itwas a very cheap shop and a very good one--excellent bargains could befound there--and all the people around patronized it. Alison wasmissed to-day, having a very valuable head for business. Shaw, theowner of the shop; was standing near the doorway. He felt cross anddispirited. He did not recognize Mrs. Reed when she came in. Hethought she was a customer, and bowed in an obsequious way. 

"What can I serve you with, madam?" he said. "What department do youwant to go to?"

"To none, thank you, sir, " answered Mrs. Reed. "I have come to see Mr. Shaw. I'll be much obleeged if I can have a few words with him. "

"Oh, Mr. Shaw! Well, I happen to be that gentleman. I am certainlyvery much occupied at present; in fact, my good woman, I must troubleyou to call at a less busy time. "

"I must say a word to you now, sir, if you please, " said Mrs. Reed, raising her eyes and giving him a steady glance. "My name is Reed. Ihave come about my grandchild. "

"Oh, " said the owner of the shop, "you are Mrs. Reed. " His browcleared instantly. "I shall be pleased to see you, madam. Of courseyou have come to talk over the unpleasant occurrence of this morning. I am more grieved than I can say. Step this way, madam, if you please. "

He marched Grannie with pomp through the crowd of customers; a momentlater she found herself in his private office. 

"Now, " he said, "pray be seated. I assure you, Mrs. Reed, I greatlyregret----"

"Ef you please, sir, " said Grannie, "it is not to hear your regretsthat I have come here. A great wrong has been done my granddaughter. Alison is a good girl, sir. She has been well brought up, and shewould no more touch your money than I would. I come of a respectablefamily, Mr. Shaw. I come of a stock that would scorn to steal, and Ican't say more of Alison than that she and me are of one mind. Sheleft her 'ome this morning as happy a girl as you could find, and cameback at dinner time broken-'earted. Between breakfast and dinner adreadful thing happened to her; she was accused of stealing afive-pound note out of your till. She said she were innocent, but wasnot believed. She was searched in the presence of her fellow shoppeople. Why, sir, is it likely she could get over the shame o' that?Of course you didn't find the money on her, but you have broke herheart, and she 'ave left your service. "

"Well, madam, I am very sorry for the whole thing, but I do not think Ican be accused of undue harshness to your granddaughter. Circumstanceswere strongly against her, but I didn't turn her off. She took the lawinto her own hands, as far as that is concerned. "

"Of course she took the law into her own hands, Mr. Shaw. 'Taintlikely that a girl wot has come of the Phippses and the Reeds wouldstand that sort of conduct. I'm her grandmother, born a Phipps, and Iought to know. You used rough words, sir, and you shamed her beforeeveryone, and you refused her a _character_, so she can't get anotherplace. Yes, sir, you have taken her character and her bread from herby the same _h_act, and wot I have come to say is that I won't have it. "

Mr. Shaw began to lose his temper--little Mrs. Reed had long ago losthers. 

"Look here, my good woman, " he said, "it's very fine for you to talk inthat high-handed style to me, but you can't get over the fact that fivepounds are missing. "

"I 'aven't got over it, sir; and it is because I 'aven't that I've cometo talk to you to-day. The money must be found. You must not leave astone unturned until it is found, for Alison must be cleared of thischarge. That is wot I have come to say. There's someone else a thiefin your house, sir, but it aint my girl. "

"I am inclined to agree with you, " said Shaw, in a thoughtful voice, "and I may as well say now that I regret having acted on the impulse ofthe moment. The facts of the case are these: Between eleven and twelveo'clock to-day, one of my best customers came here and asked me to givehim change for a five-pound note. I went to the till and did so, taking out four sovereigns and a sovereign's worth of silver, anddropped the five-pound note into the till in exchange. In my hurry Ileft the key in the till. Miss Reed was standing close to me, waitingto ask me a question, while I was attending to my customer. As soon ashe had gone she began to speak about some orders which had not beenproperly executed. While I was replying to her, and promising to lookinto the matter, a couple of customers came in. Miss Reed began toattend to them. They bought some ribbons and gloves, and put down asovereign to pay for them. She asked me for change, and being in ahurry at the moment, I told her to go to the till and help herself. She did so, bringing back the change, and at the same time giving methe key of the till. I put the key into my pocket, and the usualbusiness of the morning proceeded. After a time I went to open thetill to take out the contents in order to carry the money to the bank. I immediately missed the five-pound note. You will see for yourself, Mrs. Reed, that suspicion could not but point to your granddaughter. She had seen the whole transaction. To my certain knowledge no oneelse could have gone to the till without being noticed. I put thefive-pound note into the till with my own hands. Miss Reed went at myrequest to get change for a customer. She locked the till and broughtme the key, and when I next went to it the five-pound note haddisappeared. "

"And you think that evidence sufficient to ruin the whole life andcharacter of a respectable girl?" said Mrs. Reed. 

"There is no use in your taking that high tone, madam. The evidenceagainst Miss Reed was sufficient to make me question her. "

"Accuse her, you mean, " said Mrs. Reed. 

"Accuse her, if you like then, madam, of the theft. "

"Which she denied, Mr. Shaw. "

"Naturally she would deny it, Mrs. Reed. "

"And then you had her searched. "

"I was obliged to do so for the credit of the whole establishment, andthe protection of my other workpeople; the affair had to be goneproperly into. "

"But you found nothing on her. "

"As you say, I found nothing. If Miss Reed took the money she musthave hidden it somewhere else. "

"Do you still think she took it?"

"I am inclined to believe she did not, but the puzzle is, who did? forno one else had the opportunity. "

"You may be certain, " said Mrs. Reed, "that someone else did have theopportunity, even without your knowing it. Clever thieves can do thatsort of thing wonderful sharp, I have heard say; but Alison aint thatsort. Now, what do you mean to do to clear my granddaughter?"

"I tell you what I'll do, " said Shaw, after a pause. "I like yourgranddaughter. I am inclined to believe, in spite of appearances, thatshe is innocent. I must confess that she acted very insolently to methis morning, and for the sake of the other shop people she mustapologize; but if she will apologize I will have her back--there, Ican't act fairer than that. "

"Nothing will make her step inside your shop, sir, until she iscleared. "

"Oh, well!" said Mr. Shaw, rising, "she must take the consequence. Sheis a great fool, for she'll never get such a chance again. Suspicionis strong against her. I am willing to overlook everything, and to letthe affair of the five pounds sink into oblivion. Your granddaughteris useful to me, and, upon my word, I believe she is innocent. If shedoes not come back, she will find it extremely difficult to get anothersituation. "

"Sir, " said Mrs. Reed, "you don't know Alison. Nothing will make herset her foot inside this shop until the real thief is found. Are yougoing to find him or are you not?"

"I will do my best, madam, and if that is your last word, perhaps youwill have the goodness not to take up any more of my valuable time. "

CHAPTER II. 

Mrs. Reed left the shop, and went home as quickly as her small, activefeet could carry her. She was feeling quite brisked up by herinterview with Shaw, and her indignation supplied her with strength. She got back to the model lodging in Sparrow Street, mounted to her ownfloor, and opened the door with a latch-key. Alison was sitting by thewindow, busy over the needlework which Grannie would have done had shebeen at home. Alison was but an indifferent worker, whereas Granniewas a very beautiful one. Few people could do more lovely hand workthan Mrs. Reed. She was famous for her work, and got, as such thingsgo, good prices for it. The very best shops in the West End employedher. She was seldom without a good job on hand. She had invented anew pattern in feather-stitching which was greatly admired, and whichshe was secretly very proud of--it was an intricate pattern, and itmade a very good show. No other workwoman knew how to do it, andGrannie was very careful not to impart her secret to the trade. Thisfeather-stitching alone gave her a sort of monopoly, and she was toogood a woman of business not to avail herself of it. It was thefeather-stitching which had mostly tried her poor hand and arm, andbrought on the horrid pain which the doctor had called writers' cramp. 

"Some doctors are out-and-out fools, " murmured the old woman toherself. "He were a very nice spoke gentleman--tall and genteel, andhe treated me like a lady, which any true man would; but when he said Ihad got writers' cramp in this hand, it must have been nonsense. Forthere, I never write; ef I spell through a letter once in six months tomy poor sister's only child in Australia, it's the very most that I cando. Writers' cramp, indeed! Well, it's a comfort to know that he mustbe wrong. I wonder how Ally has got on with the work. Poor dear!I'll have to do more of that feather-stitching than ever, now that Allyhas lost her situation. "

Alison looked up and saw her grandmother standing near her. She had, of course, been taught the feather-stitching. Mrs. Reed had confidedthis important secret to her once in a time of serious illness. 

"For I may die, and it may go out of the fam'ly, " she said. "It wasbegun by my grandmother, who got the first notion of it in the sort oftrail of the leaves. My grandmother was a Simpson--most respectablefolk--farmers of the best sort. She had wonderful linen, as fine assilk. She made it all herself, and then she hemmed it and marked itand feather-stitched it with them trailing leaves. She taught thetrail to my mother, who married Phipps, and mother had a turn forneedlework, and she gave it that little twist and rise which makes itso wonderful pretty and neat; but 'twas I popped on the real finish, quilting it, so to speak, and making it the richest trimming, and themost dainty you could find. You must learn it, Alison; it would be asin and a shame for it to die with me. It must stay in the fam'ly, andyou must 'ave it on yer wedding linen, that you must. "

Grannie had taken great pains teaching Alison, and Alison had triedhard to learn, but, unlike the Phippses and the Simpsons, she had noreal turn for fine needlework. She learned the wonderful stitch, it istrue, but only in a sort of fashion. 

Now, the secret of that stitch it is not for me to disclose. It had tobe done with a twist here, and a loop there, and a sudden cleverbringing round of the thread from the left to the right at a criticalmoment; then followed a still more clever darting of the needle througha loop, which suddenly appeared just when it was least expected. Thefeather-stitching involved many movements of the hand and arm, andcertainly gave a splendid effect to the fine linen or cambric on whichit was worked. Grannie could do it almost with her eyes shut, butAlison, who thought she knew all about it, found when she began topractice that she had not taken the right loop nor the proper twist, and she quite forgot the clever under-movement which brought the threadfrom left to right, and made that sort of crinkled scroll which all theother workwomen in West London tried to imitate in vain. Grannie wastrimming some beautiful underlinen for a titled lady; it was made ofthe finest cambric, and the feather-stitching was to be a specialfeature. 

She stood now, looked down at her pretty grandchild, and saw that shehad ruined the work. 

"Poor dear, " muttered the old woman to herself, "she dint got the turnof it, or maybe her head is confused. No wonder, I'm sure; for acleverer nor neater girl than Alison don't live. "

"There, my love, " she said, speaking aloud, "I've come back. You canput away the work now. "

"Oh, Grannie!" said the girl, looking up with flushed cheeks, "have Idone it right? It looks wrong somehow; it aint a bit rich like whatyou do. "

"Dearie me, " said the old woman, "as ef that mattered. You pop it backinto my drawer now. "

"But have I done any harm?"

"Of course not, lovey. Pop it into the drawer and come and makeyourself smart for Jim. "

"For Jim?" said Alison, looking up with a glow on her cheeks, her eyesshining. "You speak as if you had good news; has anything beendiscovered?"

Grannie had made up her mind to cheer Alison by every means in herpower. She sat down now on the nearest chair, untied herbonnet-strings, and looked affectionately at the girl. 

"I have good news, " she said; "yes, all things considered, I have. "

"Is the money found, grandmother?"

"You couldn't expect it to be yet. Of course, _she_ wot took it hidit--wot else can you expect?"

"Oh, then nothing matters!" said Alison, her head drooping. 

"Dearie me, child, that's no way to take misfortin. The whole thingfrom first to last was just a bit of bad luck, and luck's the queerestthing in life. I have thought over luck all my long years, and am notfar from seventy, thank the Lord for his goodness, and I can'tunderstand it yet. Luck's agen yer, and nothing you can do will makeit for yer, jest for a spell. Then, for no rhyme or reason, it 'llturn round, and it's for yer, and everything prospers as yer touches, and you're jest as fort'nate as you were t'other way. With a youngthing like you, Ally, young and pretty and genteel, luck aint never'ard; it soon turns, and it will with you. No, the money's not foundyet, " continued the old woman, rising and taking off her bonnet andgiving it a little shake; "but it's sure to be to-night or to-morrow, for I've got the promise of the master that he won't leave a stoneunturned to find out the thief. I did give him my mind, Alison. Iwish you could have heard me. I let out on him. I let him see whatsort of breed I am'--a Phipps wot married a Reed. "

"Oh, as if that mattered!" groaned Alison. 

"Well, it did with him, love. Breed allers tells. You may be low-bornand nothing will 'ide it--not all the dress and not all the, by way of, fine manners. It's jest like veneer--it peels off at a minute'snotice. But breed's true to the core; it wears. Alison, it wears tothe end. "

"Well, Grannie, " said Alison, who had often heard these remarks before, "what did Mr. Shaw really say?"

"My love, he treated me werry respectful. He told me the whole story, calm and quiet, and then he said that he was quite sure himself thatyou was innocent. "

"He didn't say that, really?"

"I tell you he did, child; and wot's more, he offered you the placeback again. "

It was Alison's turn now to rise to her feet. She laughed hysterically. 

"And does he think I'll go, " she said, "with this hanging over me? No!I'd starve first. If that's all, he has his answer. I'll never goback to that shop till I'm cleared. Oh, I don't know where your goodnews is, " she continued; "everything seems very black and dreadful. Ifit were not for----" Her rosy lips trembled; she did not complete hersentence. 

"I could bear it, " she said, in a broken voice, "if it were notfor----" Again she hesitated, rushed suddenly across the room, andlocked herself into the little bedroom which she shared with one of hersisters. 

CHAPTER III. 

Grannie pottered about and got the tea. As she did so she shook herold head, and once a dim moisture came to her eyes. Her hand ached sopainfully that if she had been less brave she would have sat down andgiven herself up to the misery which it caused her. But Grannie hadnever thought much of herself, and she was certainly not going to do soto-day when her darling was in such trouble. 

"Whatever I do, I mustn't let out that Ally failed in thefeather-stitching, " she said to herself. "I'll unpick it to-night whenshe is in bed. She has enough to bear without grieving her. I do hopeJim will come in about supper time. I should think he was safe to. Iwonder if I could rub a little of that liniment onto my 'and myself. It do burn so; to think that jest a little thing of this sort shouldmake me mis'rible. Talk of breed! I don't suppose I'm much, afterall, or I'd not fret about a trifle of this sort. "

The tea was laid on the table--the coarse brown loaf, the pat ofbutter, the huge jug of skim milk, and the teapot full of weak tea. The children all came in hungry from school. Alison returned from herbedroom with red eyes. She cut the bread into thick slices, put ascrape of butter on each slice, and helped her brothers and sisters. The meal was a homely one, but perfectly nourishing. The children alllooked fat and well cared for. Grannie took great pride in their rosyfaces, and in their plump, firm limbs. She and Alison between themkept all the family together. She made plenty of money with herbeautiful needlework, and Alison put the eight shillings which shebrought home every Saturday night from the shop into the common fund. She had her dinner at the shop, which was also a great help. Dave wasbeginning to earn about half a crown a week, which kept him in shoesand added a very tiny trifle to the general purse; but Harry was stillnot only an expense, but an anxiety to the family. The three youngerchildren were, of course, all expense at present, but Grannie'sfeather-stitching and lovely work and Alison's help kept the littlefamily well-off. As the old woman watched them all to-night, shelaughed softly under her breath at the stupid mistake the doctor hadmade. 

"Ef he had said anything but writers' cramp, I might 'a' been nervous, "she said to herself, "but writers' cramp aint possible to anyone asdon't write. I don't place much store by doctors after that stoopidmistake; no, that I don't. "

Alison's face was very pale. She scarcely spoke during tea. Thechildren were surprised to see her at home both for dinner and tea, andbegan to question her. 

"Now, you shet up, you little curiosity boxes, " said Grannie, in herbrisk, rather aggressive voice. "Ally is at home--well, because sheis. "

"Oh, Grannie! what sort of answer is that?" cried Polly, the youngestgirl. 

"It's the only one you'll get, Miss Pry, " replied Grannie. 

The other children laughed, and began to call Polly "Miss Pry, " andattention was completely diverted from Alison. 

After the tea-things had been washed and the children had settled downto their books and different occupations, there came a knock at thedoor, and Hardy entered. 

Alison was in her bedroom. 

"Set down, Mr. Hardy, " said Grannie, if her cheerful voice. "You'vecome to see Ally, I suppose?"

"Yes, if I may, " answered the young man, an anxious expression on hisface. 

"To be sure you may; who more welcome? Children, run into my bedroom, dears. I'll turn on the gas and you can study your books in there. Run now, and be quick about it. "

"It's so cold, " said Polly. 

"Tut, tut, not another word; scatter, all of you. "

The children longed particularly to stay; they were very fond of Hardy, who generally brought them sweets. Polly's quick eyes had seen a whiteparcel sticking out of his pocket. It was horrid to have to go intoGrannie's bedroom. It was an icy-cold room; just, too, when thekitchen was most enticing. They had to go, however, and Grannie shutthe door behind them. 

"Poor things, it will be cold for them in there, " said the young man. 

"Tut, tut, " answered Grannie again, "you don't want 'em to be broughtup soft and lazy and good for naught. Now then, Jim, set down and makeyourself at home. "

"How is she?" asked Hardy, speaking in a low voice, and raising hishandsome eyes to the old lady's face. 

Grannie's eyes blazed in reply. 

"How do you expect her to be?" she answered. "Publicly shamed as shewere; I wonder you didn't take her part, Jim, that I do. "

"I felt stunned, " replied Hardy; "it was all so sudden. I tried topush forward and to speak, but I was prevented. There was such anexcitement, and Mr. Shaw was in a towering passion--there's no doubt ofthat. I'm sorry she has left, though. "

"Well, " said Grannie, "she's had the offer to take her place again ifshe likes. "

"Has she? Then he doesn't believe her to be guilty?"

"No; who would who knew her?"

"Who would, indeed?" answered the young man, a glow of pride andpleasure o& his face. 

"I'll tell her you are here in a minute, " said Grannie, "and then I'llleave you two the kitchen to yourselves. But before I go away I jestwant to say one thing--Alison won't go back. "

"Won't?"

"No, nor would I let her. Alison will stay here till she's cleared. You are in the shop, Jim, and it's your business to find thethief--that is, ef you love my girl, wot I take it you do. "

"With all my heart, that I do, " he replied. 

"Then your work's cut out for you. Now you may see her. "

Grannie stepped across the kitchen. She opened Alison's door a quarterof an inch. 

"Jim's here, Ally, " she said. "I've a job of work in my bedroom, andthe children are out of the way. You two can have the kitchen toyourselves ef you want to talk. "

Alison's low reply was scarcely discernible. Grannie went into herbedroom, clicking the door behind her. A moment or two later Hardyheard Alison step lightly across her room. She came out of it, crossedthe kitchen, and approached his side. Her face was perfectly white, her lips trembled with emotion. She still wore her shop dress, butthere was a disheveled sort of look about her which the young man hadnever noticed before. 

Her beautiful fair hair was rumpled and in disorder, her deep-blue eyeslooked pathetic owing to the tears she had shed. The young man's wholeheart went out to her at a great bound. How beautiful she was! Howunlike any other girl he had ever seen! How much he loved her in herhour of trouble!

"Oh, Alison, " he said, speaking the first words that came to his lips, "I could die for you--there!"

Alison burst into tears. Jim put his arm round her; she did notrepulse him. He drew her close to him, and she laid her head on hisshoulder. He had never held her so close to him before; he had neveryet kissed her; now he kissed her soft hair as it brushed against hischeek. 

"There, there, " he said, after a moment or two, during which she sobbedin a sort of luxury of grief and happiness; "there, there, my darlin', I am between you and all the troubles of this hard world. "

"Oh, Jim, but I can't have it, " she answered. 

She remembered herself in a moment, withdrew her head from hisshoulder, pressed back his hands, which struggled to hold her, andseated herself on a low stool at the opposite side of the little stove. 

"It's all over, dear Jim, " she said. "I do love you, I don't deny it;but I must say 'no' to-night. "

"But why, " said Hardy, "why should a nasty, spiteful bit ofmisadventure like what happened to-day divide you and me? There is nosense in it, Alison. "

"Sense or no, we can't be engaged, " replied Alison. "I won't have it;I love you too well. I'll never marry anybody while it's held over methat I'm a thief. "

"But, darlin', you are no more a thief than I am; you are jest the mostbeautiful and the best girl in all the world. I'll never marry anybodyef I don't marry you, Ally. Oh, I think it is cruel of you to turn meaway jest because you happen to be the last person seen going to thetill. "

"I'm sorry if I seem cruel, Jim, " she replied, "but my mind is quitemade up. It's a week to-night since you asked me to be your wife. Ilove yer, I don't pretend to deny it; I've loved yer for many a month, and my heart leaped with joy when you said you loved me, and of courseI meant to say 'yes. ' But now everything is changed; I'm young, onlyseventeen, and whatever we do now means all our lives, Jim, yours andmine. This morning I were so happy--yes, that I were; and I justlonged for to-night to come, and I was fit to fly when I went to theshop, although there was a fog, and poor Grannie's hand was so painfulthat she had to go to see the doctor at the hospital; but then came theblow, and it changed everything, just everything. "

"I can't see it, " interrupted Jim; "I can't see your meaning; it hasnot changed your love nor mine, and that's the only thing that seems tome of much moment. You jest want me more than ever now, and I guessthat if you loved me before, you love me better now, so why don't yousay 'yes'?"

"I can't, " she replied; "I have thought it all over. I was stunned atfirst, but for the last hour or two everything has been very plain tome. I am innocent, Jim. I no more took that note out of the till thanyou did; but it's gone, and I'm suspected. I was accused of taking it, before the whole shop. I'm branded, that's what I feel, and nothingcan take away the brand, and the pain, and the soreness, except beingcleared. If I were to say 'yes' to you to-night, Jim, and let you loveme, and kiss me, and by and by take me afore the parson, and make meyour lawful wife--I--I wouldn't be the sort of girl you really love. The brand would be there, and the soreness, and the shame, and thedreadful words would keep ringing in my ears, 'You are a thief, you area thief'--so I couldn't be a good wife to yer, Jim, for that sort ofthing would wear me out, and I'd be sort of changed; and well as youlove me now, it would come back to you that once the girl what was yourwife was called a thief, so I'll never say 'yes'--never, until I'mcleared; and somehow I don't expect I ever will be cleared, for the onethat did me this mischief must be very clever, and deep, and cunning. So it's 'good-by, ' Jim dear, and you'd better think no more of me, forI'll never go back to the shop, and I'll never wed you until I'mcleared of this dark, dark deed that is put down to me. "

"Then I will clear you; I vow it, " said Hardy. 

He rose to his feet; he looked very strong, and firm, and determined. 

"You don't suppose that I'll lose you for the sake of a five-poundnote, " he said. "I'll clear you. Grannie has put it on me, and nowyou put it on me more than ever. It 'll be only a day or two most likethat we'll be parted, sweetheart. Only I wish you wouldn't stick tothis, Ally. Let me kiss you, and let me feel that you are my own dearlove, and I'll work harder than ever to prove that you are innocent asthe beautiful dawn that you are like. There was no one ever sobeautiful as you, like you. "

Alison smiled very faintly while Jim was speaking to her, but when heapproached her and held out his arms, and tried to coax her to comeinto them, she drew back. 

"No, " she said, "I'm a thief until I'm cleared, and you shan't kiss athief, Jim Hardy, that you shan't. "

Her tears broke out afresh as she uttered these words; she flungherself on the little settle, and sobbed very bitterly. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Jim walked quickly down the street; the fog had now partly lifted, anda very faint breeze came and fanned his cheeks as, with great strides, he went in the direction of Bishopsgate Street. He had lodgings inBishopsgate Without--a tiny room at the top of a house, which he calledhis own, and which he kept beautifully neat, full of books and otherpossessions. Hanging over his mantelpiece was a photograph of Alison. It did not do her justice, failing to reproduce her expression, givingno color to the charming, petulant face, and merely reproducing thefairly good features without putting any life into them. When Hardygot home and turned on the gas in his little attic, he took thephotograph down from its place and looked at it hungrily and greedily. He was a young giant in his way, strong and muscular and good-looking. His dark eyes seemed to gather fire as he looked at Alison's picture;his lips, always strong and determined, became obstinate in theiroutline; he clenched one of his strong hands, then put the photographslowly and carefully back in its place. 

"I have made a vow, " he said to himself. "I don't remember ever makinga vow before; I'll keep this vow, so help me Heaven!--I have got toclear my girl; yes, when all is said and done, she is my girl. I'llset this thing right before a week is out. Now let me put on myconsidering cap--let me try to think of this matter as if I were adetective. By the way, there's that friend of mine, Sampson, who is inthe detective force; I've a good mind to run round to him and ask hisadvice. There's treachery somewhere, and he might give me a wrinkle ortwo. "

Jim put on his cap, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and wentout once more. As he was running downstairs he met his landlady--hewas a favorite with her. She accosted him with a civil word, and aninquiry if he did not want some supper. 

"No, thanks, " he replied, "I will sup out to-night--good-night, Mrs. Higgins. "

She nodded and smiled. 

"I wonder what's up with him, " she sad to herself--"how white he dolook! and his eyes sorter dazed--he's a right good fellow, and I wish Ihad more like him in the house. "

Jim meanwhile was marching quickly in the direction of Sampson'slodgings. He had been brought up in the country, and had never seenLondon until he was seventeen years of age. His great frame andathletic limbs were all country-bred; he could never lose thatknowledge which had come to him in his boyhood--the knowledge ofclimbing and rowing, of fishing and swimming--the power to use all hislimbs. This power had made him big and strong, and London ways andLondon life could not greatly affect him. He was very clever and verysteady, and was rising to a good position in the shop. His thoughtswere far away now from his own affairs; they were absorbed withAlison--with that dreadful shame which surrounded her, and with the vowhe had made to set his dear love straight. 

"If there's treachery, Sampson and me will find it out between us, " hesaid to himself. 

He was fortunate in finding Sampson in, and very soon unfolded hiserrand. 

Sampson was as London-bred as Jim was the reverse. He was a littlefellow, with a face like a ferret; he had sharp-peaked features, a paleskin with many freckles, very small, keen blue eyes, rather closely settogether, red hair, which he wore short and stuck up straight all overhis small head. His face was clean-shaven, and he had a very alertlook. Sampson did not live in an attic--he had a neat, well-furnishedroom, on the third floor. His room did not show the taste Jim'sdid--it was largely garnished with colored photographs of handsomeyoung women, and some of the most celebrated cricketers and boxers ofthe day. His mantelpiece was covered with pipes and one or twopolicemen's whistles. He was indulging in a pipe when Jim wasannounced. He welcomed his friend cordially, asked him to be seated, listened to his tale, and then sat silent, thinking very carefully overthe mystery. 

"Well, " said Jim, "why don't you speak? I have got to clear this thingin a couple of days. My girl will have nothing to do with me until sheis cleared of this shame, so you see how things stand, Sampson. I havegot a bit of money put by, and I'll spend it clearing her if you thinkyou can help me. "

"No, no, 'taint my line, " said Sampson, "and, besides, I wouldn't takeyour money, old chap; you are welcome to my advice, but I should onlyrouse suspicion if I were to appear in the matter--still, we can talkthe thing well over. It seems to me the point is this, who was theperson who got to the till while Miss Reed's back was turned?"

"They swear that no one could get to it, " replied Jim. "The till is, of course, in the master's desk, and Alison was close to it--shescarcely left that part of the shop--at any rate, only to move a footor two away, before the customer arrived whom she was to serve. Sheserved her customer, and went to ask Mr. Shaw for change. He told herthat the key was in the till, and that she might help herself. Shetook the change out and then locked the till. Alison is anxious enoughto be cleared, you may be quite sure, but she can't see herself how itwas possible that anyone else could have got to the till from themoment the five-pound note was put into it until she herself tookchange out and then locked it. "

"Yes, of course, " said Sampson, "so she thinks. Now, one of threethings is plain. You'll forgive me if I speak right out quite plainly, my boy?"

"Of course, " answered Hardy, with a faint smile. "You were alwaysfamous for telling your mind when you liked, Sampson. "

"And for keeping it back when I liked, " retorted Sampson. "I wouldn'tbe much of a detective if I didn't do that--still, this is my view ofthe case in a nutshell. One of three things must have happened--thatis, granted that Mr. Shaw did put the five-pound note into the till. "

"Why, of course he did, " said Jim, in surprise. 

"We must grant that, " interrupted Sampson, "or we have nothing to goupon. Granted that he put the money into the till, one of three thingshappened. Miss Reed was tempted and helped herself to the five-poundnote----"

Jim sprang to his feet, he clenched his big fist, and made a steptoward Sampson, who sat, slight, small, and unprovoked, in his chair. 

"Sit down, won't you?" he said. 

"Only I want to strangle you and kick you out of the room, " said Jim. 

"Well, I beg of you to refrain. I told you that I was a blunt body. Idon't think for a moment that Miss Reed took the money. In that case, one of my remaining two suppositions must have happened; either thenote is still in the drawer, pushed out of sight, or under some loosechange--hidden, the Lord knows where--or somebody did get to the tillwithout Miss Reed seeing that person. My belief, and my knowledge ofhuman nature, induce me to think that the third idea is the right one. "

"But no one could, " began Jim. 

"You can't say that no one could. Lor' bless you, the artful devicesof some folks is past counting. Now tell me, what sort are the othergirls in the shop?"

"Oh, well enough--a very respectable lot. "

"You don't think any of them have a spite against your young woman?"

"Well, no, I don't suppose they have--that is----"

"Ah, you hesitate--that means that one of them has. Now speak out, Jim. All depends on your being candid. "

"Oh, yes! I'll be candid enough, " said Jim; "I never saw anythingwrong with the young women in the shop. Of course, except Alison, Ihave not had much to do with any of them, but Ally once said to me thata girl called Louisa Clay had, she thought, a spite agen her. I can'timagine why, I'm sure. "

"This is interesting, " said Sampson. "Mark my words, Louisa Clay is atthe bottom of the business. Now tell me, what sort is she?"

"A handsome, well-mannered girl, " replied Jim. "She's about twentyyears of age, I should say, with a dash of the gypsy in her, for shehas coal-black hair and flashing eyes. "

"Oh, you seem to have studied her face a bit. "

"Well, she is not the sort that you could pass, " said Jim, coloring;"besides, she wouldn't stand it. "

"A jealous sort, would you say?"

"How can I tell?"

"Yes you can, Jim Hardy. I see the end of this trouble, blest ef Idon't. How long has Alison been in the shop?"

"Six months. "

"How long have you been there?"

"Oh, several years! I was apprentice first, and then I rose step bystep. I have been with Shaw a matter of six years. "

"And how long has Louisa Clay been there?"

"I can't exactly remember, but I should say a year and a half. "

Sampson now rose to his feet. 

"There we are, " he said. "You are a good-looking chap, Jim; you aretaller than us London fellows, and you've got a pleasing way with you;you were civil to Louisa before Alison came. Come now, the truth. "

"Well, she talked to me now and then, " answered the young fellow, coloring again. 

"Ah, I guess she did, and you talked to her; in fact, you kept companywith her, or as good. "

"No, that I didn't. "

"Well, she thought you did, or hoped you would; so it all comes to thesame. Then Alison arrived, and you gave Louisa up. Isn't that so?"

"I never thought about Louisa one way or the other, I assure you, Sampson. Ally and I were friends from the first. I hadn't known her afortnight before I loved her more than all the rest of the world. Ihave been courting her ever since. I never gave a thought to anotherwoman. "

"Bless me! what an innocent young giant you are; but another woman gaveyou a thought, my hearty, and of course she was jealous of Miss Reed, and if she didn't want the money for reasons of her own, she was veryglad to put a spoke in her wheel. "

"Oh, come now, it isn't right to charge a girl like that, " said Hardy. 

"Right or wrong, I believe I've hit the nail on the head. Anyhow, that's the track for us to work. Where does this girl Clay live?"

"With her father and mother in Shoreditch. He's a pawnbroker, and byno means badly off. "

"You seem to have gone to their house. "

"A few times on Sunday evenings. Louisa asked me. "

"Have you gone lately?"

"Not to say very lately. "

"Well, what do you say to you and me strolling round there thisevening?"

"This evening!" cried Jim. "Oh, come now, " he added, "I haven't theheart; that I haven't. "

"You have no spunk in you. I thought you wanted to clear your girl. "

"Oh, if you put it in that way, Sampson, of course I'll do anything;but I can't see your meaning. I do want, God knows, to clear Alison, but I don't wish to drag another girl into it. "

"You shan't; that will be my business. After all, I see I must takethis thing up; you are not the fellow for it. The detective line, Jim, means walking on eggs without breaking 'em. You'd smash every egg inthe farmyard. The detective line means guile; it means a dash of theknowing at every step. You are as innocent as a babe, and you haven'tthe guile of an unfledged chicken. You leave this matter with me. Ibegin to think I'd like to see Miss Clay. I admire that handsome, dashing sort of girl--yes, that I do. All I want you to do, Jim, is tointroduce me to the young lady. If her father is a pawnbroker he musthave a bit of money to give her, and a gel with a fat purse is just mystyle. You come along to the Clays and give me a footing in the house, and that's all I ask. "

Jim hesitated. 

"I don't like it, " he said. 

"Don't like it, " repeated Sampson, mimicking his manner. "I wouldn'tgive much for that vow of yours, young man. Why, you are a soft Sawny. You want to clear your own girl?"

"That I do, God knows. "

"Then introduce me to Miss Clay. "

"Oh, Sampson, I hope I'm doing right. "

"Fiddlesticks with your right. I tell you this is my affair. Comealong now, or it will be too late. "

Sampson took down his hat from the wall, and Jim, somewhat unwillingly, followed him out of the room and downstairs. He did not like the job, and began to wish he had never consulted Sampson. But the detective'scheery and pleasant talk very soon raised his spirits, and by the timethe two young men had reached the sign of the Three Balls, Jim hadpersuaded himself that he was acting in a very manly manner, and thatdear little Alison would soon be his promised wife. 

Compared to Jim Hardy and George Sampson the Clays were quite wealthyfolk. Louisa need not have gone into a shop at all unless she sopleased, but she was a vivacious young person, who preferred having apurse of her own to being dependent on her father. She liked to showherself off, and had the sense to see that she looked better in herneat black alpaca with its simple trimmings than in any of herbeflowered and bespangled home dresses. The Clays were having friendsto supper this special evening, and the mirth was fast and hilariouswhen Hardy and Sampson entered the room. Hardy had never seen Louisabefore in her evening dress. It gave her a blooming and buxomappearance. The dress was of a flaming red color, slightly open at theneck, and with elbow sleeves. Louisa started and colored when she sawJim. Her big eyes seemed to flash, and Sampson noticed that she gavehim a bold, admiring glance. 

"She is at the bottom of this, if ever gel was, " muttered the detectiveto himself. 

He asked Hardy to introduce him; and presently, using that tact forwhich he was famous, induced Louisa to accompany him to a sofa at alittle distance, where they sat together laughing and chatting, andHardy was relieved to find that he need not pay this bold-looking girlany attention. 

The supper was over before the young men arrived, but the atmosphere ofthe room was close with a mixture of tobacco and spirits. Several veryfat and loudly dressed old ladies were talking to a still fatter andmore loudly dressed old lady at the head of the room. This was thehostess. Clay, the pawnbroker, a little man with a deeply wrinkledface and shrewd, beadlike, black eyes, was darting in and out amongsthis friends, laughing loudly, cracking jokes, and making himselfgenerally facetious and agreeable. He clapped Jim on the shoulders, assured him that he was delighted to see him, and dragged him up to thesofa, where Louisa and Sampson were having a very open flirtation. 

"My gel will be right glad to see yer, " he said to Jim, with a broadwink. "Eh, Louisa, who have I brought, eh? You are sure to give Hardya welcome, aint you, lass?"

"If he'll take it, of course, " she replied. 

She jumped up and gave Jim a second glance of unequivocal admiration. 

"It was good of you to come, " she said, in a low tone. "I thought thatyou were a bit troubled to-day; but maybe that is why you have come, tobe cheered up. "

Jim flushed and felt uncomfortable; he could not tell Louisa his realmotive; he felt ashamed of himself, and longed to be out of this noisyscene. 

"And it isn't that I don't pity you, " she continued. "Of course I cansee that you are cut up; who would have thought that a gel likeAlison----"

Jim put up his big hand. 

"Not a word, " he said; "I won't discuss it--I can't!"

"You are awful cut up, old fellow, aint you?" said Louisa, moving astep or two out of the crowd and motioning him to a corner. "Lookhere, " she continued, "there's a quiet nook here, just under thestairs; let us stand here for a minute, I want to talk to yer. I knowyou are cut up, and I am sorry--yes, that I am. "

"I can't discuss it with you, Miss Clay, " said Jim. 

"Oh, aint it stiff of you to call me Miss Clay!" she retorted; "whenyou know me so well. "

"Perhaps it is, " he answered, too good-natured to be rude to her. "Iwill call you Louisa if you like; but Louisa or Miss Clay, whicheveryou are, I can't talk of this matter. "

Louisa's great black eyes seemed to blaze like living fires. She gaveJim a long glance. 

"Just you tell me one thing, " she said, almost in a whisper. 

"What is that?" he asked, surprised at her change of tone. 

"Are you going to marry Alison Reed, Jim Hardy?"

"You have no right to ask me the question, " he replied, "but as youhave, I will for once answer you frankly. If I don't marry AlisonReed, no other girl shall be my wife. "

"Is that a vow?" she asked. 

"You can take it as such, if you like, " he said. 

"I wouldn't make it, " she replied. "No man can tell how he willchange. "

"I'll never change, " he replied. "I think I'll say 'good-night' now. "

"Oh, dear! you aint going? Well, you shan't go until I have had mysay. I just wanted to know the truth; now I know it. Look here, Jim;I am your friend, and I am Alison Reed's friend. There is nothing Iwouldn't do for either of you. Alison must be cleared of the shamefulthing she was accused of in the shop to-day. "

"She will be cleared, " said Jim; "that is my business. Good-night, Louisa; I must go home. "

"One minute first. I'll help you to clear Miss Reed. Will you sitnext me at dinner to-morrow?"

"That is as you like, " replied Jim. 

"Please do, " she added; "I'll have made a plan by then. Yes, Alisonmust be cleared. It seems to me that it is more a woman's work than aman's. "

"No, it is my work, " said Jim. "But I'll sit next to you withpleasure; it is nothing to me one way or other. "

Louisa's eyes drooped; an angry color flooded her face. 

Jim held out his hand; she gave hers: the next minute the two young menwere again in the street. 

"Well, " said Sampson, "we have done good business, have we not?"

"I can't see it, " replied Jim. "Louisa is innocent. I don't like her, but she has had no more to do with that affair than I have had; sothere. "

"Louisa Clay is guilty, " replied Sampson. "I may not be able to proveit either to-day or to-morrow, but I will prove it before long. Youleave this matter in my hands, Jim. "

"I hate the whole thing, " said Jim; "it seems awfully hard to draganother girl into it. "

"Well, I don't believe in your sort of love, " sneered Sampson; "butmark my words: Louisa is the one what took that money. I have got afooting in the house now, and I can work the thing and prove that I amright in my own way. "

"I don't believe a word of it, " said Jim. "Don't drag me into it anyfurther, Sampson, whatever you do. "

CHAPTER V. 

Soon after the departure of the two young men, the rest of the guestsleft the Clays' house. There was no special run on the pawnshop thatnight. Saturday night was the real night for business; then work wenton until far into the small hours of the morning, and Louisa wasobliged to turn to and help her father, but to-night there was nothingto prevent her going to bed. She lit her candle in the hall, andturned to say "good-night" to her parents. 

"That's a likely young man wot came here to-night, " said the mother. 

"What young man?" asked Louisa, her eyes flashing. 

"Why, Mr. Sampson; they say he's right well off. Don't you know who heis, Loo?"

"No, that I don't, " answered Louisa. "I never set eyes on him before. I thought he was just a friend of Jim Hardy's. I thought it was Jimyou spoke of, mother, when you mentioned a likely young man. "

"Oh, Jim! he's well enough, " said Mrs. Clay. "I don't go for to denythat 'e's handsome to look at, but my thought is this, 'andsome is as'andsome does. Now, that young man Sampson, as you call him, will makehis fortin' some fine day. He's in the private detective line, andyour father says there aint a sharper man in the trade. A sharpdetective makes his fortin' in these days, no doubt on that p'int. "

Louisa's face slightly lost its color; a puzzled expression, an almostfrightened look, crept into her eyes. 

"So George Sampson is a detective, " she said slowly; "a detective, andhe is a friend of Jim's. I wonder why he came here?"

"Why he come 'ere!" said the old woman. "Why do any young men come'ere? Oh, we needn't say why; but we know. Good-night, child, good-night. "

"Good-night, mother, " said the daughter. 

She went upstairs to her own good-sized bedroom, just over thepawnshop. She occupied the best bedroom in the house. She set hercandle on her chest of drawers now, and sat down where she could seeher handsome, striking-looking figure in the looking-glass. There wasa long glass in the door of her wardrobe, and there she could see herreflection from head to foot. The red dress suited her well; itaccentuated the carmine in her cheeks, and brought out the brilliancyof her eyes. She pushed back her mass of black hair from her low brow, and gazed hard at her own image. 

"Yes, " she said to herself, "I am handsome. Ef I were a lady I'd be aqueen. I'm handsome enough for anythink. But what do it matter! GoodLor', what do _anythink_ matter when you can't get what you arebreaking your heart for! I'd give all the world for Jim, and Jim don'tcare nothink for me. "

She sighed heavily. Presently she drew herself upright, pushed herchair back so that she could no longer see her image in the glass, placed her two elbows on the table, pressed her cheeks down on her openpalms, and thought hard. 

"Why did that man, George Sampson, come here to-night?" she said toherself. "Did Jim bring him knowing that he is a detective; did hebring him because he suspects me? Oh, he couldn't suspect me; Jim aintthat mean sort. Still, I don't like Sampson; I don't like his coming'ere; I don't like the way he fixes me with his ferret eyes. Jim ismad about Alison. He can't suspect me, of course; but he is mad aboutit all. He is half broken-hearted, and he thinks less of me than ever. Oh, Jim, Jim! and I do love you so terrible bad. Why don't you love meeven a little bit back again? I'd be good ef you loved me; I know I'dbe good. What is there in Alison Reed for you nearly to die for her?She aint got my looks, she aint got my eyes, she aint got my bit ofmoney. I'm handsome, and I know it, and I'll have a tidy lot of moneywhen I'm married, for father tells me so. What is Alison compared tome? Oh, nothing, nothing at all! just a mealy-faced, white-cheekedslip of a girl. But somehow or other he loves her, and he don't loveme a bit; I'd do anything under the sun to win him. Why to-day, to-dayI did a _crime_, and 'twas for him, 'twas to win him; and, after all, Ifailed. Oh, yes, I saw it to-night, I failed horribly. "

Louisa pressed her hands to her aching eyes; tears rose and smarted hereyelids; they rolled down her cheeks. 

"I'm fit to kill myself!" she cried. "I did a crime for Jim, and Idragged a girl into it, and I failed. Yes, I'll be straight withmyself, I did it for him. Oh, God knows what I've suffered lately, themad fire and the pain that has been eating me here, " she pressed herhand to her breast; "and then to-day I was passing the desk and I sawthe note, not in the till, but lying on the floor, and no one saw me, and it flashed on me that perhaps Alison would be accused, and anyhowthat the money would come in handy. Shaw thought he put the note intothe till, but he never did. It fell on the floor, and 'twas open, andI picked it up. I have it now; no one saw me, for I did it all like aflash. The whole temptation come to me like a flash, and I took themoney in a twinkling. And now Alison is accused, and I am the realthief. I did it--yes, I know why I did it: to turn Jim agen Alison, sothat I might have a chance to win him for myself. Yes, I have got themoney. I'll jest have a look at it now. "

Louisa rose as she spoke; she took a key from her pocket, opened asmall drawer in her wardrobe, and extracted from an old-fashioned pursea crumpled five-pound note. She stared at this innocent piece of paperwith big, wide-open black eyes. 

"I wish I'd never touched it, " she said, speaking her thoughts outloud. "But of course Jim couldn't suspect me. Not a soul saw me whenI jest stooped and put the paper in my pocket. No, not a living soulsaw me. Shaw had gone away, and Alison was serving a customer, and Idid it like a flash. I had a fine time when they accused Alison, andshe turned first white and then red; but I didn't like it when I sawJim shiver. Why did he take that vow that he would marry nobody buther? See ef I don't make him break it! I haven't got my looks fornothink, and I don't love, as I love Jim, for nothink. Yes; I'll winhim yet--I have made up my mind. I think I know a way of blinding thatdetective's eyes. I'll jest let him think that I like him--that I'mlosing my heart to him. _That 'll_ fetch him! He aint married; I knowhe aint, from the way he spoke. I can soon turn a feller like thatround my little finger. Trust _me_ to blind his eyes. As to Jim! oh, Jim, you _can't_ guess wot I done; it aint in you to think meanly of agel. Why, Jim, I could even be _good_ for a man like you; but there!now that I have done this thing I can't be good, so there is nothinkfor me but to go on being as bad as possible; only some day--some day, if I win yer, perhaps I'll tell yer all. No, no; what am I saying? Ofcourse you must never know. You'd hate me if I were fifty times yerwife, ef yer knew the bitter, bitter truth. Alison is nothing at allto me; I don't care whether she breaks her heart or not, but I do careabout Jim. It is Jim I want. I'd make him a right good wife, for Ilove him so well--yes, I will get him yet--I vow it; and perhaps myvow, being a woman's, may be stronger than his. "

Louisa undressed slowly and got into bed. Her conscience was too hardto trouble her; but the thought of Jim and his despair stood for sometime between her and sleep. She was tired out, for the day had beenfull of excitement, but it was quite into the small hours before hertired eyes were closed in heavy slumber. 

Not far away, in a small flat in Sparrow Street, another girl sleptalso. This girl had cried herself to sleep; the tears were even stillwet upon her eyelashes. Grannie had come into the room and looked atAlison. Alison and Polly slept together in the tiniest little offshootof the kitchen--it was more a sort of lean-to than a room; the roofsloped so much that by the window, and where the little dressing-tablestood, only a very small person could keep upright. Grannie belongedto the very small order of women. She always held herself upright as adart, and though it was late now, she did not show any signs of fatigueas she stood with a shaded candle looking down at the sleeping girl. Alison's face was very pale; once or twice she sighed heavily. AsGrannie watched her she raised her arm, pushed back her hair, which layagainst her cheek, turned round, sighed more deeply than ever, and thensank again into unbroken slumber. 

"She's dreaming of it all, " thought the old woman. "I wonder if Jim, bless him, will clear her. I know he'll do his best. I believe he's agood lad. I wish Alison would get engaged to him right away. Jim'sdoing well in the shop, and they might be married and--dear, dear, I_wish_ my hand didn't ache so bad. Well, there's one good thing aboutit anyway--I needn't waste time in bed, for sleep one wink with thissort of burning pain I couldn't, so I may jest as well set up and putthat feather-stitching straight. It's certain true that there aint asingle thing in the world what hasn't some good p'int about it, andhere is the good p'int in this pain of mine: I needn't waste the hoursof darkness laying and doing nothink in bed. "

Grannie stole out of the room as softly as she had entered. She shutthe door behind her without making the least sound; she then lit alittle lamp, which was much cheaper than gas, saw that it burned trimand bright, and set it on the center-table in the kitchen. The nightwas bitterly cold; the fog had been followed by a heavy frost. Granniecould hear the sharp ringing sound of some horses' feet as they passedby, carrying their burdens to the different markets. It was long pasttwelve o'clock. The little kitchen was warm, for the stove had burnedmerrily all day. Grannie opened the door of the stove now and lookedin. 

"Shall I, or shall I not, put on an extry shovelful of coals?" she saidto herself; "an extry shovelful will keep the heat in all night; I havea mind to, for I do perish awful when the heat goes out of the kitchen;but there, it would be sinful waste, for coals are hard to get. Efthat doctor were right, and it were really writers' cramp, I mightn'tbe able to earn any more money to buy coals; but of course he aintright; how silly of me to be afraid of what's impossible! Yes, I'llput on the coals. Thank the good Lord, this feather-stitching means areal good income to us; and now that Ally can't bring in her eightshillings a week, I must work extry hard, but it's false savin' toperish of cold when you have it in you to earn good money, so heregoes. "

Grannie filled a very tiny shovel, flung the precious coals into theopening of the stove, shut it up again, and, taking the cambric fromthe cupboard in the wall, sat down with needle and thread just wherethe full light of the lamp could best fall on her work. Her right handached and ached--it not only ached, but burned; the pain seemed to goup her arm; it sometimes gave her a sort of sick feeling. 

"Of course it's rheumatis, " she said to herself. "Well now, what asilly I am! Why don't I try the liniment? There, I'll rub some onafore I begin to work. "

She took the bottle from the mantelpiece, opened it, and poured alittle of the mixture into the palm of her left hand. The liniment washot and comforting; it smarted a little, and relieved the dull insidepain. Grannie found herself able to move her thumb and forefingerwithout much difficulty. 

"There!" she said; "it's stiffening of the j'ints I'm getting. Thisliniment is fine stuff. I must be very careful of it, though; why, I'ma sight better already. Now then, first to wash my 'ands, and then tounpick the feather-stitching poor Ally did to-day. Poor darlin', shecouldn't be expected to do it proper, but I'll soon set it right. "

Mrs. Reed poured some warm water from the tap into the basin beneath, washed her old hands very carefully, dried them well, and sat down inquite a cheerful mood in her warm, snug, bright little kitchen tounpick Alison's work. The liniment had really eased the pain. She wasable to grasp without any discomfort the very finely pointed scissorsshe was obliged to use, and after an hour and a half of intricatelabor, during which she strained her old eyes in order to avoid cuttingthe delicate cambric, she had at last undone the mischief which Alisonhad caused that day. 

"Now then, here we are, as straight as possible, " she said aloud, inher cheery way. "It's wonderful how fresh I do feel, and this hand's asight better. I declare it's a sort of Providence that the old don'twant much sleep--why, the church clock has gone two, and I aint a bitdrowsy. I know what I'll do, I'll work till five, that's three hours;then I'll go to bed till seven. My hand's so comfortable that I'm sureto sleep like a top, and seven is time enough for me to rise. Twohours aint such a bad lot of sleep for a woman of my years. Let's see, I'm sixty-eight. In one sense sixty-eight is old, in another senseit's young. You slack down at sixty-eight; you don't have such a drawon your system, the fire inside you don't seem to require such pokingup and feeding. When you get real old, seventy-eight or eighty, thenyou want a deal of cosseting; but sixty-eight is young in one sense ofthe word. This is the slack time--this is the time when you live realcheap. What a deal of mercies I have, to be sure; and them beautifulgrandchildren, so fat and hearty, and Alison and me to keep the houseso snug, and tight, and neat, and not a debt in the world. Now, then, I expect I'll get a lot of work through in these three hours. I canset up for the next few nights, till Ally gets her place back again, and make up all the difference, and more, that her eight shillings aweek brings in. Oh, thank the Lord, it's wonderful fortinit that I'vecome to the easy time of life. If I were younger now, I must have mysleep; but at sixty-eight you, so to speak, slacks down your fire, and_werry_ little keeps it goin'. "

As Grannie thought these last vigorous and contented thoughts, shepulled the lamp nearer, seized her needle and thread, and commenced herfeather-stitching. For the first quarter of an hour or twenty minutesthe work went well--the mysterious twists, and turns, and darts, andloops were all made with fidelity and exactitude--the lovely crinkledornament stood out boldly on the delicate cambric. Grannie looked ather work with intense pride and happiness. 

"It's a fortin'--I do wish that gel would learn it. Why, ef the two ofus were at it, she'd make a sight more than she do in the shop. Ideclare I'll give her a lesson to-morrow---- Oh, my God! what's that?Oh, my God, help me!"

The needle fell through her powerless fingers; the finger and thumbwere drawn apart, as though they had not the power to get togetheragain. Grannie gazed at her right hand in a sort of panic. 

"There; it has happened once or twice afore, " she said toherself--"that dreadful prick and stab, and then all the power goin'sudden-like--of course it's rheumatis--there, I've no cause to befrightened; it's passing off; only it do make me sick and faint. I'llhave a cup of tea and then another rub of the liniment. "

The great agony frightened her very much; it took some of her highspirits away. She rose slowly, and made her tea, drank it off scaldinghot, and then rubbed some more liniment on the hand. It was not quiteso comforting nor quite so warming this time as it was on the formeroccasion. She washed her hands again, and set to work. 

"Oh, good Lord, give me strength!" she murmured, as she seized herneedle and thread. "Think of all the children, Lord, and the littleones so fat and well fed; remember me, good Lord, and take therheumatis away, _ef_ it's your good will. "

She took up her needle with renewed courage, and once more began toperform those curious movements of wrist and hand which were necessaryto produce the feather-stitching. In ten minutes the pain returned, the powerless finger and thumb refused to grasp the needle. Largedrops of sweat stood out now on Grannie's forehead. 

"Wot do it mean?" she said to herself. "I never heerd tell ofrheumatis like this, and for certain it aint writers' cramp, for Inever write. Oh, what an awful sort of thing writing is, when a letteronce in six months knocks you over in this way. Dear, dear, I'ma-shaking, but I 'a' done a nice little bit, and it's past threeo'clock. I'll go to bed. The doctor spoke a deal about rest; I didn'tmind him much. He was all wrong about the pain, but perhaps he wereright about the rest, so I'll go straight to bed. "

Grannie carefully slacked down the fire, put out the lamp, and stoleinto the little bedroom which she shared with the two younger children. Harry and David were already asleep in the lean-to at the other side ofthe kitchen, the opposite room to Alison's. The well-fed children inGrannie's bed breathed softly in their happy slumbers; the little oldwoman got in between them and lay down icy cold, and trembling a gooddeal. The children slept on, but the little woman lay awake with herwide-open eyes staring straight into the darkness, and the dreadfulpain in hand and arm banishing all possibility of slumber. 

CHAPTER VI. 

In the morning Grannie got up as usual. She was very white and shaky, but she had no intention of complaining. The pain from which she wassuffering had somewhat abated, but the poor hand and arm felt tired andvery feeble. She longed for the comfort of a sling, but decided not towear one; the children would all notice it and pass remarks, andGrannie could not bear to be commented upon. She did not want to addtrouble to trouble just now. She resolved to forget herself inthoughts of Alison and the others. She was early in the kitchen, butto her relief and pleasure found David there before her. Next toAlison, David was Grannie's favorite. He was thoughtful andconsiderate. He was a great big manly fellow, but there was also avery sweet feminine element in him; he could be domestic without beingin the least girlish. He was devoted to Grannie, and often, tired ashe was when he went to bed, got up early in the morning to save herwork. He had turned on the gas, and the first thing he noticed now, when she came in, was her worn, puckered little face. 

"Why, Grannie, you are out of sorts, " he said. "Why did you get up soearly? Surely Ally and me can manage the bit of work. But, I say, youare all of a tremble. Set down, and I'll get ye a cup of tea in aminute. "

"No, Dave, no!" said the old woman, "'twill soon pass--'twill soonpass; the rheumatis in my hand and arm has been bothering me all night, and it makes me a bit shaky; but 'twill soon pass, Dave. We mustn'twaste the tea, you know, lad; and I won't have a cup--no, I won't. "

"Well, set there and rest, " said the young man. "Thank goodness, Iaint ashamed to work, and I'm real proud to put the kitchen straightand tidy. See how bright the fire is already; you warm your toes, Grannie, and you'll soon be better. "

"So I will, to be sure, " said Mrs. Reed, rubbing her hands and sinkinginto the chair which David had brought forward. 

She gazed into the cheery flames, with her own bright-blue eyes, clearand steady. Then she looked straight up at David, who was in the actof filling the kettle and placing it on the top of the stove. 

"David, " she said, "stoop down a minute; I have a word or two to say. "

David dropped on his knees at once, and put his hand on Grannie'sshoulder. 

"You aint likely to have a rise in your wages soon, are you, Dave?"

"Oh, yes, I am! arter a bit, " he answered. "Mr. Groves is real pleasedwith me. He says I am a steady lad, and he often sets me to cast upaccounts for him, and do little odds and ends of jobs. He says he hasalways railed against the School Board, but sometimes, when he sees howtidy I can write, and how well I can read and spell, he's inclined tochange his mind. "

"And what rise will he give?" said Grannie, whose mind was entirelyfixed on the money part of the question. 

"Well, maybe a shilling more a week, when the first year is out. "

"And that 'll be----"

"Next March, Grannie; not so long coming round. "

"Yes, " she replied, "yes. " In spite of herself, her voice had a sadnote in it. "Well, you see, Dave, you can't keep yourself on half acrown a week. "

"I wish I could, " he answered, looking dispirited, "but I thought youwere content. Is there anything that worries you, old lady?"

"No, that there aint, my brave boy. You stick to your work and pleaseyour master; you're safe to get on. "

"I wish I could support myself, " said David. "I wish I knew shorthand;that's the thing. A lad who knows shorthand, and can write and spellas well as I can, can earn his ten shillings a week easy. "

"Ten shillings a week, " said Grannie. "Lor' save us, what a power ofmoney!"

"It's true, " said David; "there's a lad who was at school with me--hisname was Phil Martin--he managed to pick up shorthand, and he's earningten shillings a week now. He's a bit younger than I am, too. He won'tbe fifteen for two months yet. "

"Shorthand?" said Grannie, in her reflective voice; "that's writing, aint it?"

"Why, to be sure, Grannie; only a different sort of writing. "

"Still, you call it writing, don't you?"

"To be sure I do. "

"Then, for the Lord's sake, don't have anythink to do with it, David. Ef there is a mischievous, awful thing in the world, it's handwriting. I only do it twice a year, and it has finished me, my lad--it hasfinished me out and out. No, don't talk of it--keep your half a crowna week, and don't be tempted with no handwriting, short or long. "

David looked puzzled and distressed; Grannie's words did not amuse himin the least--they were spoken with great passion, with a rising colorin the little old cheeks, and a flash of almost fever in the brighteyes. Grannie had always been the perfect embodiment of health andstrength to all the grandchildren, and David did not understand herthis morning. 

"Still, " he said, "I can't agree with you about shorthand; it's a grandthing--it's a trade in itself; but there's no chance of my getting toknow it, for I aint got the money. Now, hadn't I better get breakfast?Ally will be out in a minute. "

"No, no; there's time enough. Look here, Dave, Harry must leave schoolaltogether--he's old enough, and he has passed the standard. He mustearn somethink. Couldn't he go as one of them messenger boys?"

"Perhaps so, Grannie; but why are you in such a hurry? Harry's reallyclever; he's got more brains than any of us, and he earns a shilling orso a week now in the evenings helping me with the figures at Mr. Groves'. "

"Do you think Mr. Groves would take him on altogether, Dave?"

"No, he'd do better as a messenger boy--but don't hurry about himleaving school. He'd best stay until midsummer, then he'll be fit foranything. "

"Midsummer, " said the old woman to herself, "midsummer! Oh, good Lord!"

She bent her head down to prevent David seeing the tears which suddenlysoftened her brave eyes. 

"What's all this fuss about Alison?" said David suddenly. 

At these words Grannie rose to her feet. 

"Nothing, " she said, "nothing--it's nothing more than what I'd call astorm in a tea-cup. They have lost a five-pound note at Shaw's andthey choose, the Lord knows why, to put the blame on our Ally. Ofcourse they'll find the note, and Ally will be cleared. "

"It seems a pity she left the shop, " said David. 

"Pity!" said Mrs. Reed. "You don't suppose that Ally is a Phipps and aReed for nothink. We 'old our heads high, and we'll go on doing so. Why, Dave, they think a sight of Alison in that shop. Mr. Shaw knowswhat she's worth; he don't believe she's a thief, bless her!Yesterday, when I went to see him, he spoke of her as genteel as youplease, and he wanted her back again. "

"Then why, in the name of goodness, doesn't she go?" said David. 

"Being a Phipps and Reed, she couldn't, " replied Grannie. "We, none ofus, can humble ourselves--'taint in us--the breed won't allow it. Allywas to say she was sorry for having done nothing at all, and, being aPhipps and a Reed, it wasn't to be done. Don't talk any more about it, lad. Shaw will be going on his knees to have her back in a day or two;but I have a thought in my head that she may do better even than in theshop. There, you've comforted me, my boy--you are a real out-and-outcomfort to me, David. "

"I am glad of that, " said the young fellow. "There's no one like youto me--no one. "

He kissed her withered cheek, which was scarcely like an apple thismorning, being very pale and weary. 

"Grannie, " he said, "is it true that Ally is going to marry Jim Hardy?"

"It's true that Jim Hardy wants her to marry him, " replied Grannie. 

"I wonder if he does?" replied David, in a thoughtful voice. "They saythat Clay's daughter is mad for Jim, and she'll have a tidy sight ofmoney. "

"She may be as mad as she pleases, but she won't get Jim. Now, dohurry on with the breakfast. What a lad you are for chattering!"

Poor David, who had certainly been induced to chatter by Grannieherself, made no response, but rose and set about his work askitchen-maid and cook with much deftness. He stirred the oatmeal intothe pot of boiling water, made the porridge, set the huge smoking dishon the center of the table, put the children's mugs round, laid atrencher of brown bread and a tiny morsel of butter on the board, andthen, having seen that Grannie's teapot held an extra pinch of tea, hepoured boiling water on it, and announced the meal as ready. Theyounger children now came trooping in, neat and tidy and ready forschool. Grannie had trained her little family to be very orderly. Asthe children entered the room they came up to her one by one, andbestowed a kiss on her old lips. Her salutation to them was alwayssimple and always the same: "Bless you, Polly; bless you, Susie; blessyou, Kitty. " But immediately after the blessing came sharp, quickwords. 

"Now, no dawdling; set down and be quick about it--sup up your porridgewithout letting a drop of it get on your clean pinafores, or I'll smackyou. "

Grannie never did smack the children, so this last remark of hers hadlong fallen flat. Alison came in almost immediately after thechildren, and then, after a longer interval, Harry, looking red andsleepy, took his place by the table. Harry was undoubtedly the blacksheep of the family. Both Alison and David bestowed on him one or twoanxious glances, but Grannie was too absorbed in some other thought totake much notice of him this morning. Immediately after breakfast thechildren knelt down, and Grannie repeated the Lord's Prayer aloud. Then came a great scampering and rushing about. 

"Good-by, Grannie--good-by, Ally, " came from several pairs of lips. 

Then a clatter downstairs, then a silence--even David had gone away. On ordinary occasions Alison would have departed quite an hour beforethe children, as she always had to be at the shop in good time todisplay her excellent taste in the dressing of the windows. To-day sheand Grannie were left behind together. 

"You don't look well, Grannie, " began the young girl. 

"Now, listen, Alison, " said Mrs. Reed, speaking in quite a tart voice, "ef you want to really vex me, you'll talk of my looks. I'm at theslack time o' life, and a little more color or a little less don'tmatter in the least. Ef I were forty and looked pale, or eighty andlooked pale, it might be a subject to worry 'em as love me; beingsixty-eight, I have let off pressure, so to speak, and it don't matter, not one little bit, whether I'm like a fresh apple or a piece o' dough. I am goin' out marketing now, and when I come back I'll give you afresh lesson in that feather-stitching. "

A dismayed look crept into Alison's face; she raised her delicate browsvery slightly, and fixed her clear blue eyes on Grannie. She was aboutto speak, but something in the expression on Grannie's face kept hersilent. 

"You clear up and have the place tidy against I come back, " said thelittle woman. "You might make the beds, and set everything inapple-pie order, ef you've a mind to. "

She then walked into her little bedroom, and shut the door behind her. In three minutes she was dressed to go out, not in the neat drawnblack-silk bonnet, but in an old straw one which had belonged to hermother, and which was extremely obsolete in pattern. This bonnet hadonce been white, but it was now of the deepest, most dingy shade ofyellow-brown. It had a little band of brown ribbon round it, whichended neatly in a pair of strings; these were tied under Grannie'schin. Instead of her black cashmere shawl she wore one of very roughmaterial and texture, and of a sort of zebra pattern, which she hadpicked up cheap many and many years ago from a traveling peddler. Shewore no gloves on her hands, but the poor, swollen, painful right handwas wrapped in a corner of the zebra shawl. On her left arm shecarried her market basket. 

"Good-by, child, " she said, nodding to her granddaughter. Then shetrotted downstairs and out into the street. 

There was no fog to-day--the air was keen and bright, and there waseven a very faint attempt at some watery sunbeams. There wasn't abetter bargainer in all Shoreditch than Mrs. Reed, but to-day herpurchases were very small--a couple of Spanish onions, half a pound ofAmerican cheese, some bread, a tiny portion of margarine--and she hadexpended what money she thought proper. 

She was soon at home again, and dinner was arranged. 

"I may as well get the dinner, " said Alison, rising and taking thebasket from the old woman. 

"My dear, there aint nothing to get; it's all ready. The children musthave bread for dinner to-day. I bought a stale quartern loaf--I got apenny off it, being two days old; here's a nice piece of cheese; andonions cut up small will make a fine relish. There, we'll put thebasket in the scullery; and now, Alison, come over to the light andtake a lesson in the feather-stitching. "

Alison followed Mrs. Reed without a word. They both took their placesnear the window. 

"Thread that needle for me, child, " said the old woman. 

Alison obeyed. Mrs. Reed had splendid sight for her age; nothing hadever ailed her eyes, and she never condescended to wear glasses, old asshe was, except by lamplight. Alison therefore felt some surprise whenshe was invited to thread the needle. She did so in gloomy and solemnsilence, and gave it back with a suppressed sigh to her grandmother. 

"I don't think there's much use, Grannie, " she said. 

"Much use in wot?" said Mrs. Reed. 

"In my learning that feather-stitching--I haven't it in me. I hateneedlework. "

"Oh, Ally!"

Grannie raised her two earnest eyes. 

"All women have needlework in 'em if they please, " she said; "it's bornin 'em. You can no more be a woman without needlework than you can bea man without mischief--it's born in you, child, the same as bed-makingis, and cleaning stoves, and washing floors, and minding babies, andcoddling husbands, and bearing all the smaller worries of life--theyare all born in a woman, Alison, and she can no more escape 'em thanshe can escape wearing the wedding-ring when she goes to church to bewed. "

"Oh, the wedding-ring! that's different, " said Alison, looking at herpretty slender finger as she spoke. "Oh, Grannie, dear Grannie, myheart's that heavy I think it 'll break! I can't see thefeather-stitching, I can't really. " Her eyes brimmed up with tears. "Grannie, don't ask me to do the fine needlework to-day. "

Grannie's face turned pale. 

"I wouldn't ef I could help it, " she said. "Jest to please me, darling, take a little lesson; you will be glad bimeby, you reallywill. Why, this stitch is in the family, and it 'ud be 'a burningshame for it to go out. Dear, dearie me, Alison, it aint a small thingthat could make me cry, but I'd cry ef this beautiful stitch, wot comedown from the Simpsons to the Phippses, and from the Phippses to theReeds, is lost. You must learn it ef you want to keep me cheerful, Ally dear. "

"But I thought I knew it, Grannie, " said the girl. 

"Not to say perfect, love--the loop don't go right with you, and theloop's the p'int. Ef you don't draw that loop up clever and tight, youdon't get the quilting, and the quilting's the feature that none of theworkwomen in West London can master. Now, see yere, look at me. I'lldo a bit, and you watch. "

Grannie took up the morsel of cambric; she began the curious movementsof the wrist and hand, the intricate, involved contortions of thethread. The magic loop made its appearance; the quilting stood out inrichness and majesty on the piece of cambric. Grannie made three orfour perfect stitches in an incredibly short space of time. She thenput the cambric into her granddaughter's hand. 

"Now, child, " she said, "show me what you can do. "

Alison yawned slightly, and took up the work without any enthusiasm. She made the first correct mystic passage with needle and thread; whenshe came to the loop she failed to go right, and the effect was bungledand incomplete. 

"Not that way; for mercy's sake, don't twist the thread like that!"called Grannie, in an agony. "Give it to me; I'll show yer. "

It seemed like profanation to see her exquisite work tortured andmurdered. She snatched the cambric from Alison, and set to work tomake another perfect stitch herself. At that moment there came thesudden and terrible pain--the shooting agony up the arm, followed bythe partial paralysis of thumb and forefinger. Grannie could not helputtering a suppressed groan; her face turned white; she felt a passingsense of nausea and faintness; the work dropped from her hand; theperspiration stood on her forehead. She looked at Alison withwide-open, pitiful eyes. 

"Wot is it, Grannie--what is it, darlin'? For God's sake, wot'swrong?" said the girl, going on her knees and putting her arms roundthe little woman. 

"It's writers' cramp, honey, writers' cramp, and me that never writesbut twice a year; it's starvation, darlin'. Oh, darlin', darlin', it'sstarvation--that's ef you don't learn the stitch. "

All of a sudden Grannie's fortitude had given way; she sobbed andsobbed--not in the loud, full, strong way of the young and vigorous, but with those low, suppressed, deep-drawn sobs of the aged. All in aminute she felt herself quite an old and useless woman--she, who hadbeen the mainspring of the household, the breadwinner of the family!All of a sudden she had dropped very low. Alison was full ofconsternation, but she did not understand grief like Grannie's. Shewas at one end of life, and Grannie was at the other; the old womanunderstood the girl--having past experience to guide her--but the girlcould not understand the old woman. It was a relief to Grannie to tellout her fear, but Alison did not comprehend it; she was full of pity, but she was scarcely full of sympathy. It seemed impossible for her tobelieve that Grannie's cunning right hand was going to be useless, thatthe beautiful work must stop, that the means of livelihood must cease, that the old woman must be turned into a useless, helpless log--nolonger the mainspring, but a helpless addition to the strainedhousehold. 

Alison could not understand, but she did her best to cheer Grannie up. 

"There, there, " she said; "of course that doctor was wrong. In all mylife I never heard of such a thing as writers' cramp. Writers'cramp!--it's one of the new diseases, Grannie, that doctors are justforcing into the world to increase their earnings. I heard tell in theshop, by a girl what knows, that every year doctors push two newdiseases into fashion, so as to fill their pockets. But for them, we'dnever have had influenza, and now it's writers' cramp is to be therage. Well, let them as writes get it; but you don't write, you know, Grannie. "

"That's wot I say, " replied Grannie, cheering up wonderfully. "No onecan get a disease by writing two letters in a year. I don't suppose itis it, at all. "

"I'm sure it isn't, " said Alison; "but you are just tired out, and mustrest for a day or two. It's a good thing that I'm at home, for I canrub your hand and arm with that liniment. You'll see, you'll be allright again in a day or two. "

"To be sure I will, " said Grannie; "twouldn't be like my luck ef Iwarn't. " But all the same she knew in her heart of hearts that shewould not. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Both Alison and Mrs. Reed were quite of the opinion that, somehow orother, the affair of the five-pound note would soon be cleared up. Themore the two women talked over the whole occurrence, the more certainthey were on that point. When Grannie questioned her carefully, Alisonconfessed that while she was attending to her two rather troublesomecustomers, it would have been quite within the region of possibilityfor someone to approach the till unperceived. Of course Alison hadnoticed no one; but that would not have prevented the deed being done. 

"The more I think of it, the more certain I am it's that Clay girl, "said Grannie. "Oh, yes, that Clay girl is at the bottom of it. I'lltell Jim so the next time he calls. "

"But I don't expect Jim to call--at least at present, " said Alison, heaving a heavy sigh, and fixing her eyes on the window. 

"And why not, my dearie, why shouldn't you have the comfort of seeinghim?"

"It aint a comfort at present, Grannie; it is more than I can bear. Iwon't engage myself to Jim until I am cleared, and I love him so much, Grannie, and he loves me so much that it is torture to me to see himand refuse him; but I am right, aint I? Do say as I'm right. "

"Coming of the blood of the Simpsons, the Phippses and Reeds, you cando no different, " said Grannie, in a solemn tone. "You'll be clearedwerry soon, Alison, for there's a God above, and you are a poor orphingirl, and we have his promise that he looks out special for orphins;oh, yes, 'twill all come right, and in the meantime you might as welltake a lesson in the feather-stitching. "

But though Grannie spoke with right good faith, and Alison cheered upall she could, things did not come right. The theft was not broughthome to the wicked Clay girl, as Grannie now invariably called her;Shaw did not go on his knees to Alison to return; and one day Jim, whodid still call at the Reeds' notwithstanding Alison's prohibition, brought the gloomy tidings that Shaw was seeing other girls with a viewto filling up Alison's place in the shop. This was a dark blow indeed, and both Alison and Grannie felt themselves turning very pale, andtheir hearts sinking, when Jim brought them the unpleasant news. 

"Set down, Jim Hardy, set down, " said Grannie, but her lips trembledwith passion as she spoke. "I don't want to see anyone in my housethat I don't offer a chair to, but I can't think much of your detectivepowers, lad, or you'd have got your own gel cleared long ere this. "

"I aint his own girl, and he knows it, " said Alison, speaking pertlybecause her heart was so sick. 

Jim hardly noticed her sharp words--he was feeling very depressedhimself--he sank into the chair Grannie had offered him, placed his bigelbows on his knees, pushed his huge hands through his thick hair, andscratched his head in perplexity. 

"It's an awful mystery, that it is, " he said; "there aint a person inthe shop as don't fret a bit for Ally--she was so bright andgenteel-looking; and no one thinks she's done it. If only, Alison, youhadn't gone away so sharp, the whole thing would have blown over bynow. "

"Coming of the blood----" began Grannie; but Alison knew the conclusionof that sentence, and interrupted her. 

"Bygones is bygones, " she said, "and we have got to face the future. I'll look out for another post to-day; I'll begin to study the papers, and see what can be done. It aint to be supposed that this will crushme out and out, and me so young and strong. "

"But you'll have to get a character, " said Jim, whose brow had notrelaxed from the deep frown which it wore. 

Alison gave her head another toss. 

"I must do my best, " she said. She evidently did not intend to pursuethe subject further with her lover. 

Jim was not at all an unobservant man. He had seen many signs whichdistressed him, both in Grannie's face and Alison's; he knew also thatHarry had been taken from school quite a year too soon; he knew wellthat Alison's bread winnings were necessary for the family, and that itwas impossible to expect an old body like Grannie to feed all thosehungry mouths much longer. 

"Look here, " he said, rising suddenly to his feet, "I have gotsomething to say. "

"Oh, dear, dear, why will you waste our time?" said Alison. 

"It aint waste, and you have got to listen--please, Mrs. Reed, don't goout of the room; I want you to hear it too. Now, you look at me, Alison Reed. I am big, aint I, and I'm strong, and I earn good wages, right good--for a man as isn't twenty-five yet. I'm getting close ontwo pounds a week now, and you can see for yourselves that that's agood pile. "

"Bless us!" said Grannie, "it's a powerful heap of money. "

"Well, I'm getting that, " said Jim, with a sort of righteous pride onhis face, "and no one who knows what's what could complain of the same. Now, this is what I'm thinking. I am all alone in the world; I haven'tkith nor kin belonging to me, only an uncle in Australia, and he don'tcount, as I never set eyes on him. I'd have never come to London butfor father and mother dying off sudden when I was but a bit of a lad. I'm sort of lonely in the evenings, and I want a wife awful bad. "

"Well, there's Louisa Clay, and she's willing, " said Alison, who, notwithstanding that her heart was almost bursting, could not restrainher flippant tone. 

Jim gave her a steady look out of his dark gray eyes, but did notreply. She lowered her own eyes then, unable to bear their true andfaithful glance. 

"What I say is this, " said Jim, "that I know you, Alison; you aint nomore a thief than I am. Why shouldn't you come home to me? Whyshouldn't you make me happy--and why shouldn't I help the lads andGrannie a bit? You'd have as snug a home as any girl in London; andI'd be proud to work for you. I wouldn't want you to do any moreshopwork. Why should we wait and keep everybody wretched just for abit of false pride? Why should you not trust me, Ally? And I loveyou, my dear; I love you faithful and true. "

"I wish you wouldn't say any more, Jim, " said Alison. 

The note in her voice had changed from sharp petulance to a low sort ofwail. She sank on a chair, laid her head on the table which stoodnear, and burst into tears. 

"Grannie, I wish you would try and persuade her, " said the young man. 

"I'll talk to her, " said Grannie; "it seems reasonable enough. Twopounds a week! Lor' bless us! why, it's wealth--and ef you love her, Jim?"

"Need you ask?" he answered. 

"No, I needn't; you're a good lad. Well, come back again, Jim; go awaynow and come back again. We'll see you at the end of a week, that wewill. "

Jim rose slowly and unwillingly. Alison would not look at him. Shewas sobbing in a broken-hearted way behind her handkerchief. 

"I don't see why there should be suspense, " he said, as he took up hiscap. "It's the right thing to do; everything else is wrong. And seehere, Alison, I'll take a couple of the children; they don't cost much, I know, and it will be such a help to Grannie. "

"To be sure, that it will, " said Grannie. "That offer about thechildren is a p'int to be considered. You go away, Jim, and come backagain at the end of a week. "

The young man gave a loving glance at Alison's sunny head as it restedon the table. His inclination was to go up to her, take her headbetween his hands, raise the tearful face, kiss the tears away, and, inshort, take the fortress by storm. But Grannie's presence preventedthis, and Alison would not once look up. The old woman gave him anintelligent and hopeful glance, and he was obliged to be content withit and hurry off. 

"I'll come again next Tuesday to get my answer, " he said. 

Alison murmured something which he did not hear. The next instant hehad left the room. 

The moment his footsteps had died away Alison raised her tearful face. 

"You had no right to do it, Grannie, " she said. "It was sort ofencouraging him. "

"Dry your tears now, child, " said Mrs. Reed. "We'll talk of this lateron. "

"You said yourself I'd have no proper pride to marry Jim at present, "continued the girl. 

"We'll talk of this later on, " said Grannie; "the children will be homein a minute to tea. After tea you and me will talk it over while theyare learning their lessons. "

Grannie could be very immovable and determined when she liked. Havinglived with her all her life, Alison knew her every mood. She perceivednow, by her tightly shut up lips, and the little compression, which wasscarcely a frown, between her brows, that she could get nothing moreout of her at present. 

She prepared the tea, therefore; and when the children came in she cutbread and margerine for them, for butter had long ago ceased to appearon Grannie's board. 

After tea the children went into Grannie's bedroom to learn theirlessons, and the old woman and the young found themselves alone. Thelamp was lit, and the little room looked very cheerful; it was warm andsnug. Grannie sat with her hands before her. 

"I thought I wouldn't tell you, but I must, " she said. "It's a monthto-day, aint it, Ally, since you lost your place?"

"Yes, a month exactly, " replied Alison. "It is close on Christmas now, Grannie. "

"Aye, " said the old woman, "aye, and Christmas is a blessed, cheerfultime. This is Tuesday; Friday will be Christmas Day. We must have anice Christmas for the children, and we will too. We'll all becheerful on Christmas Day. Jim might as well come, whatever answer yougive him next week. He's all alone, poor lad, and he might come andjoin our Christmas dinner. "

"But we haven't much money, " said Alison. "We miss what I earned atthe shop, don't we?"

"We miss it, " said Grannie, "yes. "

She shut up her lips very tightly. At this moment quick footsteps wereheard running up the stairs, and the postman's sharp knock sounded onthe little door. Alison went to get the letter. It was for Grannie, from a large West End shop; the name of the shop was written in clearcharacters on the flap of the envelope. 

Grannie took it carefully between the thumb and finger of her lefthand--she used her right hand now only when she could not help it. Noone remarked this fact, and she hoped that no one noticed it. Sheunfastened the flap of the envelope slowly and carefully, and, takingthe letter out, began to read it. It was a request from the managerthat she would call at ten o'clock the following morning to take alarge order for needlework which was required to be completed in aspecial hurry. Grannie laid the letter by Alison's side. 

Alison read it. She had been accustomed to such letters coming fromthat firm to Grannie for several years. Such letters meant many of thecomforts which money brings; they meant warm fires, and good meals, andsnug clothes, and rent for the rooms, and many of the other necessariesof life. 

"Well, " said the girl, in a cheery tone, "that's nice. You have nearlyfinished the last job, haven't you, Grannie?"

"No, I aint, " said Grannie, with a sort of gasp in her voice. 

"I thought I saw you working at it every day. "

"So I have been, and in a sense it is finished and beautiful, I amsure; but there aint no feather-stitching. I can't manage thefeather-stitching. I can never featherstitch any more, Alison. Maybefor a short time longer I may go on with plain needlework, but thatspecial twist and the catching up of the loop in the quilting part ofthe feather-stitching, it's beyond me, darlin'. 'Taint that I can'tsee how to do it, 'taint that I aint willing, but it's the finger andthumb, dearie; they won't meet to do the work proper. It's all over, love, all the money-making part of my work. It's them letters toAustralia, love. Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

Grannie laid her white head down on the table. It was a very sad sightto see it there, a much more pathetic sight than it had been to seeAlison's golden head in the same position an hour or two ago. Therewas plenty of hope in Alison's grief, heart-broken as it seemed, butthere was no hope at all in the old woman's despair. The last time shehad given way and spoken of her fears to Alison she had sobbed; but sheshed no tears now--the situation was too critical. 

"_Ef_ you had only learned the stitch, " she said to her granddaughter. There was a faint shadow of reproach in her tone. "I can't show it toyou now; but ef you had only learned it. "

"But I do know it, " said Alison, in distress. 

"Not proper, dear; not as it should be done. I fear that I can nevershow you now. "

"And that is why you want me to marry Jim?" said Alison. "I wonder atyou, Grannie--you who have such pride!"

"There are times and seasons, " said Grannie, "when pride must give way, and it seems to me that we have come to this pass. I looked at Jimwhen he was talking to-day, and I saw clear--clear as if in avision--that he would never cast up to you those words that you dread. If you are never cleared of that theft, Alison, Jim will never call hiswife a thief. Jim is good to the heart's core, and he is powerfulrich, and ef you don't marry him, my gel, you'll soon be starving, forI can't do the feather-stitching. I can't honestly do the work. I'llgo and see the manager to-morrow morning; but it's all up with me, child. You ought to marry Jim, dear, and you ought to provide a homefor the two little ones--for Polly and little Kitty. "

"And what's to become of you, Grannie, and Dave, and Harry, and Annie?"

"Maybe Jim would take Annie too, now that he is so rich. "

"Do you think it would be right to ask him?"

"No, I don't; no, I don't. Well, anyhow, it is good to have half thefam'ly put straight. You will think of it, Ally, you will think of it;you've got a whole week to think of it in. "

"I will think of it, " said Alison, in a grave voice. 

She got up presently; she was feeling very restless and excited. 

"I think I'll go out for a bit, " she said. 

"Do, child, do; it will bring a bit of color into your cheeks. "

"Is there anything I can get for you, Grannie--anything for Christmas?You said we were to be happy till after Christmas. "

"So we will; I have made up my mind firm on that p'int. We'll have aright good Christmas. There's three pounds in my purse. We'll spendfive shillings for Christmas Day. That ought to give us a powerful loto' good food. Oh, yes, we'll manage for Christmas. "

"This is Tuesday, " said Alison, "and Christmas Day comes Friday. ShallI get any of the things to-night, Grannie?"

Grannie looked up at the tall girl who stood by her side. She saw therestless, agitated expression on the young face. 

"She'll like to have the feel of money in her hands again, " thought thelittle woman. "I'll trust her with a shillin'. Lor', I hope she'll becareful with it. Twelve pennies can do a mint ef they're spentcareful. "

She went slowly to her cupboard, took her keys out of her pocket, unlocked it with her left hand, and, taking her little purse from asecret receptacle at the back of the cupboard, produced a shilling fromher hoard. 

"There, " she said, "for the Lord's sake don't drop it; put it safe inyour pocket. You might get the raisins for the puddin' and the sugarand the flour out o' this. You choose from the bargain counter, anduse your eyes, and don't buy raisins what have got no fruit in 'em. Sometimes at bargain counters they are all skin, and good for nothink;but ef you are sharp you can sometimes pick up right good fruity fruit, and that's the sort we want. Now, don't be long away. Yes, for sure, we may as well have the stuff for the puddin' in the house. "

Alison promised to be careful. She put on her neat black hat andjacket and went out. She had scarcely gone a hundred yards before shecame straight up against Louisa Clay. Louisa looked very stylish in alarge mauve-colored felt hat, and a fur boa round her neck; her blackhair was much befrizzed and becurled. Alison shrank from the sight ofher, and was about to go quickly by when the other girl drew upabruptly. 

"Why, there you are, " she said; "I was jest thinking of coming round tosee yer. "

Alison stood still when she was addressed, but she did not make anyremark. Her intention was to go on as soon as ever Louisa had finishedspeaking. Louisa's own intention was quite different. 

"Well, I am glad, " she continued. "I have a lot of things to say. Doyou know your place is filled up?"

"Yes, " said Alison, flushing. "Jim told me. "

"Jim!" repeated Louisa, with a note of scorn. "Don't you think you arevery free and easy with Mr. Hardy? And when did you see him?" sheadded, a jealous light coming into her eyes. 

"He was at our house this afternoon. I must say good-evening now, Louisa. I am in a hurry; I am doing some errands for Grannie. "

"Oh, I don't mind walking a bit o' the way with you. You are goingshopping, is it?"

"Well, yes; Christmas is near, you know. "

Alison felt herself shrinking more and more from Louisa. She hated herto walk by her side. It irritated her beyond words to hear her speakof Jim. She dreaded more than she could tell Louisa finding out howpoor they were; nothing would induce her to get the bargain raisins orany of the other cheap things in her presence. 

"I am rather in a hurry, " she said; "perhaps you won't care to go sofast. "

"As it happens, I have nothing special to do. I'll go with you now, orI'll call in by and by and have a chat. I don't know that old Grannieof yours, but folks say she's quite a character. Jim said so lastnight when he was supping at our house. "

"I am sure he didn't, " muttered Alison under her breath angrily; butshe refrained from making any comment aloud. 

"Well, " said Louisa, "you'd like to know what sort of girl is coming toShaw's to take up your work?"

"I don't think I would, " replied Alison; "I am really not interested. "

"I wonder you care to tell such lies, Alison Reed! Anyone can tell byyour face that you are just burning with curiosity and jealousy. "

"You mustn't say such things to me, " said Alison; "if you do, I won'twalk with you. "

"Oh, my word, how grand we are!" said the other girl; "how high andmighty, and all the rest of it! To be sure, Alison, you were a flat torun off the way you did that day. There is not a person in the shopthat don't think you guilty, and small blame to 'em, I say. Poor Jimdid fret a bit the first day or two, but I think he's pretty happy now;he comes to our house constant. He's very fine company is Jim, hesings so well; and did you know he had a turn for acting? We'regetting up a little play for Christmas Eve, and Jim's to be the hero;I'm the heroine. My word! it's as pretty a bit of love-making as you'doften see. I tell you what it is, Alison; I'll give you an invitation. You shall come and see it; you will now, won't you? I'll think you'redevoured with jealousy if you don't. You will; say you will. "

Alison paused for a moment--a sort of inward rage consumed her. Howdared Jim profess such love for her, and yet give up so much of histime to Louisa--how dared he make love to her even in play! A suddenfierce resolve came into her heart. Yes, she would see the acting--shewould judge for herself. Christmas Eve, that was Thursdaynight--Thursday was a good way off from Tuesday, the day when she wasto give Jim her answer. As she walked now by Louisa's side, sheguessed what her answer would be--she would be careful andcautious--oh, yes, she would see for herself. 

"I will come, " she said suddenly, and to Louisa's great surprise--"Iwill come, if you promise me one thing. "

"What's that?"

"Don't tell Jim Hardy--don't say anything about it. When he sees mehe'll know, but don't tell him beforehand. "

Louisa burst into a loud, scathing laugh. 

"To hear you speak, Alison, " she said, "one would think that you weresomebody of consequence to Mr. Hardy. Oh, dear--oh, dear, the conceitof some folks! Do you suppose it would make any _difference_ to himwhether you came or not? But take my word for it, I won't tell him. "

"Thank you, " said Alison. "Yes, I'll be there. What time shall Icome?"

"The acting begins at nine o'clock, but there's supper first at eight;you had best come to supper. I will put you in a corner where youcan't get even a sight of Jim's face, then you'll be easy and happy inyour mind. "

"No, I won't come to supper, but I'll come in time for the acting. Iam very much obliged, I am sure. "

Louisa gave vent to a great yawn. 

"Seems to me, " she said, "that you aint up to much shopping; youhaven't gone into one shop yet. "

"No more I have, " said Alison. "I have changed my mind; I won't buythe things I meant to to-night. I'll go home now; so I'll saygood-evening. "

"Good-evening, " said Louisa, accompanying her words with a sweepingcourtesy which she considered full of style and grace. 

She went home chuckling to herself. 

"I guess that acting will finish up Alison's love affair, " she thought. "It won't be any fault of mine if it doesn't. Oh, good-evening, Mr. Sampson. "

George Sampson, who had been looking out for Louisa, now joined her, and the two walked back to the pawnshop arm in arm, and talking veryconfidentially together, Louisa had been true to her ownpredictions--she had so flattered and so assiduously wooed GeorgeSampson that he was her devoted slave by this time. He came to see herevery night, and had assured Jim Hardy long ago that of all people inthe world Louisa was the last who had anything to do with the stealingof the five-pound note. Louisa's own charms were the sort which wouldappeal to a man like Sampson, but whether he would have made up hismind to marry her, if he did not know that she was safe to have a nicelittle sum down from her father on her wedding-day, remains an openquestion. 

As Alison walked home, many angry and jealous thoughts whirled throughher brain. Was Jim really false to her?--she forgot all about his facethat afternoon; she forgot his earnest words. She only recalledLouisa's look of triumph and the little play which was to be acted inher presence. 

"Yes, I'll be there, " thought the girl; "yes, Christmas Eve shalldecide it. "

She ran upstairs and entered the kitchen. Grannie and David weresitting side by side, engaged in earnest conversation. David blushedwhen he saw Alison, and suddenly slipped something under the table;Grannie patted his arm softly with her left hand. 

"Well, Ally, you are home in double-quick time, " she said. 

"Too quick, is it?" said Alison, taking off her hat and flingingherself wearily into the nearest chair. 

"No, no, my child, never too quick, " said the old lady; "and did youget a good bargain?" she added the next minute anxiously. "Were youcareful in the spending of that shillin'? Why, I don't see anyparcels. For mercy's sake child, don't tell me that you dropped theshillin'. "

"No, I didn't, Grannie; here it is. Somehow I am out of humor forbargains to-night--that's why I come back. "

Grannie took back the precious shilling tenderly. She went to thecupboard and restored it to her purse. As she did so, she gave a sighof relief. She was full of respect for Alison's powers, but not as abargainer; she was certain she could get a penny-worth more value outof the shilling than her grand-daughter would. 

"Dave, " she said, turning to the lad as she spoke, "Ally and I havemade up our minds that, whatever happens, we'll have a right goodChristmas. We'll have a puddin' and snap-dragon, and a little bit ofbeef, and everything hot and tasty, and we'll have the stockings hungup just as usual by the children's beds; bless 'em, we'll manage itsomehow--somehow or other it has got to be done. Who knows but perhapscheerful times may follow Christmas? Yes, who knows? There's never nouse in being downhearted. "

"I suppose you are thinkin' of a wedding, " said Alison suddenly. 

"Well, dear child, and why not?"

"There's not much chance of it, " was the reply, in a defiant tone. "Anyhow, " continued Alison, "I've made up my mind to look for anothersituation to-morrow. "

Grannie's little white face became clouded. 

"I am going to Oxford Street, to a registry office, " said Alison. "Iknow lots about counter work, and I don't doubt that I may get a verygood place; anyhow, I'm going to try. "

"Well, that's sperit, there's no denying that, " said the old lady;"it's in the breed, and it can't be crushed. "

"David, what are you hiding under the table?" said Alison, in a fretfultone. She felt too unhappy to be civil to anyone. 

"I have got spirit, too, and I'm not ashamed, " said David suddenly. "It's a bit o' stuff I'm feather-stitching; there--I am learning thestitch. "

"Well!" said Alison; "you, a boy?"

"Yes, I--a boy, " he replied, looking her full between the eyes. 

There was something in the fearless glance of his gray eyes that causedher to lower her own--ashamed. 

"Dave's the blessing of my life, " said Mrs. Reed; "he has learned thestitch, and though he do it slow, he do it true and beautiful. Itshan't never now die out of the fam'ly. "

CHAPTER VIII. 

Grannie felt that matters had arrived at a crisis. Whatever thedoctors chose to call the suffering which she endured, her right handwas fast becoming useless. It was with her right hand that shesupported her family; if it failed her, therefore, her livelihood wascut off. She was a brave little woman; never in all her long life hadshe feared to look the truth in the face. She looked at it now quietlyand soberly. Night after night she gazed at it as she lay in her tinybed in her tiny bedroom, with a grandchild fast asleep at each side ofher. She lay motionless then, in too great pain to sleep, and with thefuture staring at her. 

To-night she went to bed as usual. There was no manner of use insitting up burning lamps and fire; it was far cheaper to lie down inthe dark in bed. She lay down and gazed straight out into the deepshadows which filled the little room. It was a moonlight night, andsome of the moon's rays pierced through the tiny window, but most ofthe room lay in shadow, and it was toward the shadow Grannie turned hereyes. 

"It's all true, " she said to herself, "there aint no manner of use indenying it, or turning my face from it--it's true--it's the will o' theLord. My mother said to me--her as was a Simpson and married aPhipps--she said when my father died, 'Patty, it's the will o' theLord. ' I didn't like, somehow, to hear her say it--the will o' theLord seemed so masterful like, so crushing like, so cruel. And now thewill o' the Lord has come to me. It wor the Lord's will to bless meall my life hitherto, but now it is his will to make things sore dark. Somehow I can't trust and I can't hope, for there's nothing to hopefor, and there are the children, four of 'em unable to earn theirbread. Harry must make shift to do something, but there are threelittle ones. Oh, good Lord, don't ever let me hear the children cryfor bread!"

As Grannie whispered these words out into the darkness, she laid herleft hand tenderly on the flaxen head of her youngest grandchild. Herhand stroked down the smooth, round head; the child stirred in herdreams, murmured "Grannie, " and turned over on her other side. She wasvery well, and very happy--as plump as a little button--a bonny, bright-eyed creature. Grannie used to adore her stout legs. 

"Kitty have always been so well fed, " she used to say; "that's thesecret--there's nothink like it--nothink. "

And she had held the fat baby, and by and by the fat little girl, upadmiringly for less fortunate neighbors to criticise. 

Now the fiat had fallen; the bread-winner could no longer earn thefamily meal, and Kitty and the others would have to do without theirbread and butter. 

"It is true, and it must be faced, " thought the old woman. "The p'intto be considered now is, how is it to be faced? Wot's the best way?"

Grannie thought matters over very carefully. Before the morning shehad marked out a line of action for herself. Christmas Day should comeand go before any of the dark shadow which filled her own breast shoulddescend upon the younger members of the household. David and Alisonknew about it, or at least they partly knew, although it was impossiblefor them to quite realize the extent of the disaster. It was arranged, too, that Harry was to leave school, so he also must partly guess thatsomething was up; but the little ones had never known sorrow yet, andGrannie resolved that they should have a perfect Christmas Day. Afterward, if Alison would only consent to marry Jim, half the familywould be provided for. For Grannie, although she was proud, had nofalse pride, and she felt that a man who was earning such magnificentwages as two pounds a week might undertake the care, at any rate for atime, of two little children. But even granted that Alison and the twoyoungest were off her hands, there were still David, Harry, and Annieto provide for. Grannie could not see her way plain with regard tothese three members of the family. She resolved to ask the advice ofan old clergyman of the name of Williams, who had often before givenher valuable counsel. Mr. Williams was most kind; he was full ofresources; he took a great interest in the poor; he had known Granniefor close on twenty years; he might be able to help her in thiscritical moment of her fate, Having made up her mind so far, the littlewoman fell asleep. 

When she heard at an early hour the following morning that Alison wasstill fully resolved to seek for a new situation, she suggested thatshe should call at the shop in Regent Street, see the manager, andexplain to him as best she could that it was out of Grannie's power todo any more needlework. 

"You had best go, " said Grannie, looking up at the girl with her brightblue eyes, and a determined expression steeling her sweet old mouthalmost to sternness. "Jest see the manager, Mr. Squire, and tell himthe simple truth. Take him back this underclothing; it is finishedbeautiful all but the feather-stitching. I know he'll be put out, butI suppose he'll give me half pay--o' course, I don't expec' more. Efthat cambric had been properly feather-stitched there was thirtyshillings to be got on it; but I'll be glad of fifteen, and you can letMr. Squire know. I am pleased that Dave knows the stitch, for he canteach it to his wife when he gets one. He have promised, dear lad;there's a fortin' in it yet, for a member of the fam'ly wot _hasn't_learned handwriting. It's them schools wot are at the bottom of allthis trouble, Alison. Talk of edication! My mother, wot was a Simpsonby birth, could only put a cross agin her name, but Lor', wot a finewoman she was with sprigs!--we called the beginning of thefeather-stitching sprigs in them days. It was she invented sprigs, andshe had no writers' cramp, nor a chance o' it, bless her! Now then, dearie, run off, and bring me back the fifteen shillings. We'll try tokeep up 'eart till after Christmas Day. "

Alison was very silent and depressed, but she promised to do exactly asher grandmother wished in the matter of the feather-stitching; and withthe cambric made up into a neat parcel she soon left the little flat. 

Grannie sighed deeply when she saw her go. The little woman felt thatshe had burned her boats; there was no going back on anything now. Shehad severed with her own hands her best connection, and nothing couldever be the same again. A sort of agony came over her as she heardAlison running downstairs, a fierce desire to call her back, to beg ofher not to go to Mr. Squire at all that day; but one glance at theswollen, useless hand made her change her mind. She sat down limp onthe nearest chair, and one or two slow tears trickled out of her eyes. 

By dinner time Alison was back; she was full of her own concerns, andconsidered Grannie and the feather-stitching, for the time being, quitea secondary matter. 

"The shop is a very good one, " she said, "and they want a girl. If Ican bring a good character, I am very likely to get the situation. Itis twelve shillings a week, four--four shillings more than Shaw used togive me. If only I can get Shaw to give me a character I'll be allright, and on twelve shillings a week we can keep up the house somehow;can't we, Grannie?"

Grannie pursed up her lips, but did not speak. 

She knew far better than Alison that these small wages, although animmense help, could not possibly do the work which herfeather-stitching money had accomplished. 

"Well, dearie, " she said, after a pause, "I am glad that things are sofar good; but have you quite made up your mind not to marry poor Jim, then, Alison?"

"No, no, not quite, " she replied, coloring; "but the fact is, I wanttwo strings to my bow. By the way, I did not tell you that the Clayshave invited me to a party there to-morrow night?"

"The Clays!" exclaimed Grannie. "Sakes! you aint goin' to them?"

"Yes, but I am. I have promised. "

"I don't think the Clays are the sort of people that a girl of yourbreed ought to know, Alison. Poor as we are, we hold up our heads, andwhy shouldn't we, being----"

"Oh, Grannie, here is your fifteen shillings, " interrupted Alison. "Isaw Mr. Squire, and he said he was sorry, but he really could not offermore, as the feather-stitching was not done. "

"He were put out, weren't he?" said Grannie, her little face puckeredup in her intense anxiety to know how Mr. Squire bore the calamity. 

"After a fashion, yes, " said Alison; "but he said the new embroiderywhich is coming in so much would do quite as well, and he knew a womanwho would do the things in a hurry. He said: 'Give my compliments toMrs. Reed, and say I am sorry to lose her nice work, ' and he paid me mymoney and bowed me out of the shop. "

"It is all over, Grannie, " continued the girl, cruel in her severity, and not knowing she was stabbing the old woman's heart at every word. "You place wonderful store by that feather-stitching, but the newembroidery will do quite as well for all the fine ladies, and otherwomen will get the money. "

"Yes, yes, " said Grannie, "yes, it is the will o' the Lord. Somehow, that seems to steady me up--to bear it like. "

She went out of the room tottering a little, but came back quitecheerful when the children returned home for the midday meal. 

After dinner Alison went to see Mr. Shaw. She did not like this job atall, but she knew she had no chance of getting another place unless shecould induce Shaw to give her a character. She planned how best to goto the shop without being observed by the rest of the shop people. Shewas too handsome a girl not to have created a great deal of attentionduring her stay at Shaw's, and now, with this story about the thefthanging over her head, she would be more interesting and more worthy ofcriticism than ever. She dreaded beyond words being seen at Shaw's, more particularly by Louisa Clay and Jim Hardy. She crept in by a sideentrance, and as the shop was very full at this hour (Christmas beingso close at hand, the crowd this afternoon was denser than ever), shemanaged to escape attention. She could see without being noticed. Sheobserved Louisa flaunting about the shop, looking very handsome, and onevery possible occasion appealing to Jim for advice or help. Jim wasthe walker to-day, and Louisa was always calling him to her on onepretext or another. It seemed to Alison's jealous eyes that the youngman did not dislike her too-evident attentions. He always replied toher with courtesy, and, according to Alison, stood by her side longerthan was necessary. 

"I must get that situation in Oxford Street, " muttered the girl toherself. "I shall feel fit to kill those two if ever they are wed, andthe further I am off the better. "

Her angry and excited feelings gave her courage, and she was able toask a comparative stranger--a girl who scarcely knew her--if she couldsee Mr. Shaw. 

"I am afraid you cannot to-day, " was the reply. "The manager is toobusy, but if you like to call again----"

"No, no, I see him there. I'll ask him myself, " was the reply. 

"Lor', what cheek!" muttered the new shop-girl; but Alison was too faraway to hear her. 

She had approached Mr. Shaw as he was wishing one of his customers "AMerry Christmas and a Happy New Year. " He turned round with a smile onhis lips. Things were doing remarkably well, and he could afford to becheerful. Suddenly his rather staring, bloodshot eyes encountered thefull gaze of Alison's clear blue ones. 

"Eh, Miss Reed?" he said, stepping back in astonishment. 

"Yes, sir; can I speak to you?" said Alison. 

"Certainly, my dear, certainly; come this way. She has found out whothe thief is, and will come back once more, " muttered the manager tohimself. "She's the best and most attractive shopwoman I ever had; sheshall come back immediately after Christmas. "

He hurried Alison through the shop into his own little counting-house. He shut the door then, and asked her to seat herself. 

"How are you?" he said, fixing his eyes with a sort of coarseadmiration on her face. "You have got at the truth of this miserablematter, have you not? Now, I wonder who the thief is, eh? Well, all Ican say is this: I am right glad that you know. We miss you, MissReed, in the shop. Your services have been of great value to us. Ishall have the person who took that money prosecuted; there's not theleast doubt about that. Your character will be abundantly cleared, andyou can resume your post here immediately after the Christmas holidays. "

"I thought, " said Alison, "that you had got someone else to fill myplace. "

"So I have, so I have--that Jenkins girl--the daughter of poor TomJenkins, who died in the autumn; but, bless you, she's no good; shedon't even know the meaning of drawing on a customer! You see, MissReed, I don't mean to flatter you, but you have got the tact, and justwhen the sales are beginning you will be invaluable. I can offer you apercentage on all the remnants you dispose of. Come, now, that's abargain; you'll be right welcome back. You have got tact, and if I maybe allowed to say so--_looks_. "

Here the manager gave Alison another broad stare. 

"By the way, who is the thief?" he continued. 

"You quite misunderstand me, sir, " said Alison. "I have not found thethief--I have not the faintest idea who stole that money; I only knowthat I did not, and that nothing will induce me to set foot again inthis shop as one of the staff until I am cleared. "

"Then, my good girl, may I ask what in the world you are wasting mytime for?"

He approached the door of his tiny counting-house, and half opened itas he spoke. 

"One minute, sir, please. Although I cannot of course come here, Inaturally want to get another situation. "

"I dare say; but that is not my affair. "

"Oh, yes, please, sir, it is! I have just heard of a very good post inOxford Street. I saw the manager this morning, and he said that hewould give me the situation if you could recommend me. Will you, sir;will you give me a character, Mr. Shaw?"

"You have cheek, " said Shaw, in a deliberate voice. "Do you suppose Iam going to recommend a thief?"

"But, oh, sir, oh, Mr. Shaw, you know I am not that!"

"I don't know anything of the kind; I only know that you are a brazen, unreasonable hussy. You know perfectly well that when you left hereyou forfeited your character. Yes, your attitude, let me tell you, Miss Reed, cuts both ways. If you don't choose to come here until youare cleared, I don't give you a character until you are cleared. Come, now, that's a fair bargain, is it not?"

"Oh, sir, it is so hard of you!" said Alison. "Sir, if you would butbe merciful!"

"That's my last word, " said Shaw. "I must go back to attend to mycustomers. "

He left the counting-house abruptly, and Alison did not take long infollowing his example. 

"It is no good, Grannie, " she said, when she entered her little homehalf an hour afterward. "Shaw is as hard as a millstone. He won'tgive me a character until I am cleared; and, as I never shall becleared, why, I'll never get a character, and I cannot get a situation. What is to become of me, Grannie; oh, Grannie, what is to become of me?"

At these words Alison gave way to the most terrible, overpoweringgrief. She did not know how to comfort Grannie, but Grannie knew howto comfort her. She patted her as if she were a baby; she stroked hersoft hair, and kissed her hot cheeks, and laid her head on her ownlittle shoulder, and made tea, although the supply in the caddy wasgetting very low, and then talked to her as she knew how, and withwonderful cunning and power of Jim, Jim, Jim. 

As Alison loved Jim this subject could not but be of interest to her. 

"There's no other way out of it, " said Grannie finally. "He is yersweetheart, faithful and true--he don't suspect you; he never willsuspect you. You whisper 'yes' to him on Christmas night, dearie, anddon't wait for next Tuesday. It's the right thing to do, it's the onlyright thing to do. "

CHAPTER IX. 

On Christmas Eve, Grannie went out and stayed away for about an hour. She looked mysterious when she came back. She wore her zebra-patternshawl, which was quite bulged out with parcels. These she conveyedquickly into her bedroom, notwithstanding the devouring eyes which thechildren cast upon them. 

"Out of that, " she said, pushing them all aside; "none of yourcuriosity, or you'll get nothing. What right have you to suppose asI'm agoin' to waste my money a-giving presents to little brats likeyou? Now, out of the way, out of the way. For goodness' sake Polly, set down and finish stoning 'em raisins. Annie, is that a currant Isee in yer mouth, you bad, greedy girl? I'll whack you, as sure as myname's Grannie. "

Then Grannie disappeared into her room and locked the door amid thescreams of excitement and laughter of the happy children. "I am an oldfool to do it, " she said to herself, trembling a good deal, for somehowshe had been feeling very weak the last few days; the constant pain andanxiety had told upon her. "I am an old fool to spend seven andsixpence on nothing at all but gimcracks to put into the Christmasstockings; but there, I must see 'em happy once again--I must--I will. Afterwards there'll be a dark time, I know; but on Christmas Day itshall be all light--all light, and cheerfulness, and trust, for thesake of the dear Lord wot was born a babe in Bethlehem. "

Grannie very carefully deposited her parcels in the old-fashionedbureau which stood in the corner of the tiny bedroom. She locked it upand put the key in her pocket, and returned to the little sitting room. 

Alison was busy trimming her party dress. She had a party dress, andquite a stylish one. It was made of pink nun's-veiling, which she hadgot very cheap as a bargain at Shaw's when the summer sale was over. The dress was made simply, quite high to the throat, with long sleeves, but the plain skirt and rather severe-looking bodice, with its frill oflace round the throat and wrists, gave Alison that curiously refined, ladylike appearance which was so rare in her station of life. She hada sort of natural instinct which kept her from overdressing, and shealways looked the picture of neatness. She was furbishing up the laceon the dress now, and Polly was seated by the little table stoning theraisins for the Christmas pudding, and gazing with admiration at hersister all the while. The Christmas bustle and sense of festivitywhich Grannie had insisted on bringing into the air, infected everyone. Even Alison felt rather cheerful; as she trimmed up the old dress shekept singing a merry tune. If it was her bounden duty to marry Jim--toreturn the great love he bore her--to be his faithful and truewife--then all the calamity of the last few days would be past. Goodluck would once more shine upon her. Once again she would be thehappiest of the happy. 

"Oh, yes, I love him!" she murmured to herself. "I love him betterevery day, every hour, every minute; he is all the world to me. Ithink of him all day long, and dream of him all through the night. Icould be good for him. If he is strong enough and great enough to getover the fact of my being accused of theft, why, I'll take him; yes, I'll take him. It will make Grannie happy too. Poor old Grannie! shedon't look too well the last day or two. It is wonderful, but I thinkshe is fretting sore about that feather-stitching. Poor dear! shethinks more of that feather-stitching than of most anything else in theworld; but, Lor' bless her, they'll soon be putting something else inits place in the West End shops. The feather-stitching will beold-fashioned beside the embroidery. Poor old Grannie, it is hard onher!"

By this time the tea hour had arrived. Alison took her dress into herlittle bedroom, laid it on the bed, and came back to help to get readythe family meal. David and Harry both came noisily upstairs to partakeof it. They were going out immediately afterward to the boys' club, and told Grannie that they would not be back to supper. 

"There are going to be real high jinks at the club to-night, " saidHarry; "a magic lantern and a conjurer, and afterward we are to playleapfrog and billiards, and end up with a boxing match. That swell, Mr. Rolfe, is the right sort. Anyone would think that he had knownboys from this part of the world all his days. "

"Boys is boys all the world over, " said Grannie; "be they rich or poor, high or low, they are just the same--mischeevous, restless youngwagabones. Now then, Harry, for goodness gracious, don't spill yourtea on the cloth. My word! wot a worry you all are. "

"You know you don't think so, Grannie, " said the audacious boy. Hisblack eyes laughed into her blue ones; she gave him a smile into whichshe threw her whole brave heart. He remembered that smile in the darkdays which were to follow. 

Tea was over, and presently Alison went into her room to dress. Shedid not intend putting in an appearance at the Clays' before nineo'clock, and she told Grannie not to sit up for her. Of course Jimwould see her home. It occurred to her, and her heart beat faster atthe thought, that she might be able to give Jim his final answer on herway home; if so, what a glorious Christmas present would be hers. Accordingly, as she dressed her hair she sang a cheerful little songunder her breath. Grannie heard her in the kitchen, paused with herfinger on her lip, and enjoined silence for a moment, and then smiledin a very heart-whole manner. 

"To be sure, " she murmured to herself "the will of the Lord seems fullo' mercy to-night. Wot do it matter about an old body like me, efthings go right for the children? Oh, good Lord, I commit thesechildren to thy care; do for 'em wot is right, and don't trouble aboutan old body. I don't count; I know my place is safe enough for me inthe Kingdom. I need not fret about wot is left for this world. "

When Alison came out of her room, looking beautiful, and fifty timestoo good for the company she was to be with, Grannie gave her a kiss, which was so full of gladness and meaning as to be almost solemn. 

"And Jim will see you home, " said the old lady. "Oh, yes, yes!"

"To be sure; but don't sit up, Grannie, " said Alison. 

"I won't ef you don't wish it, love. You'll find the key under themat; now go off, and a Christmas blessin' with you. "

Alison departed, and soon afterward the younger children were hustledoff to bed. They were very much excited, and did not at all wish toretire at this comparatively early hour, but Grannie was peremptory. She had plenty of work to do after the rogues were asleep, shemurmured. So off to bed they went, with a couple of raisins each byway of comfort; and when she thought they were snoring she slippedsoftly into her room to fetch the brown paper parcels, and the longwoolen stockings which year after year had done duty for the SantaClaus gifts. If she suspected it, she took good care not to look;nevertheless, the fact remains that the three little snorers did opentheir eyes for a brief moment, and did see the parcels going out, andthe stockings following them, and then turned round to hug each otherin an ecstacy of bliss. On this occasion Alison's companion slept withher two sisters, and they kept up a little chatter, like birds in anest, for quite five minutes after Grannie had left them. She heardthem, of course, --for every sound could be heard in the littleflat, --but she took no notice. 

"Bless 'em, how happy they are!" she said to herself. "Bless the Lord, oh, my soul. I do declare there's a sight o' good to be got out oflife, writers' cramp or not. Now, then, to open these parcels. "

The parcels when opened produced a wonderful array of cheap workboxes, needle-cases, pin-trays, ornamental pens, boxes full of bon-bons, pennywhistles, twopenny flutes, a Jew's-harp or two; in short, a medley ofevery kind of heterogeneous presents which could be produced with themodest sum of from a penny to twopence halfpenny. Grannie fullybelieved in numbers. She knew from past experience that the childrenwould rather have half a dozen small things than one big thing. Theworsted stockings, too, which had been knit in a bygone age, by thecelebrated Mrs. Simpson, the inventor of the sprig, were deep and long. They took a great deal of filling, and Grannie knew what keendisappointment would be the result if each stocking was not chock-full. She collected her wares, sorted them into six parcels, laid the sixstockings on the table by the side of the gifts, and then began toselect the most appropriate gifts for each. Yes; Alison should havethe little basket which contained the pretty thimble, the little plushpin-cushion glued on at one corner, and two reels of cotton kept intheir place by a neat little band, and the needle-book at the oppositeside. 

"This is the werry nattiest thing I have seen for many a day, " murmuredGrannie, "and only tuppence three farthings. I'll take the price off, of course. Now, suppose Ally comes back an engaged girl, could shehave anything prettier than this little basket? It shall go in the topof the stocking, jest where it can peep out and look at her the firstthing in the morning. "

The stockings were filled at last; the toes and heels dexterouslystuffed out with apples and oranges; the gifts following next--eachseparate gift wrapped in paper, and tied neatly with string. 

"Quite half the fun is in the untying of the string, " thought Mrs. Reed. "Oh, how the little 'earts will go pitter-patter! Don't I knowit myself? Why, when I were nothing more than a five-year-old Phipps, I remember as well as possible taking my presents out of this werrystocking, and trembling all over when I couldn't untie the knot of theparcel which held that cock made of sugar, wot I kept on thechimney-piece for many and many a day afterward; for though mother giveit to me, she wouldn't let me eat it. "

The six stockings were filled, and each stocking hung at the foot ofits future owner's bed. The children were sound asleep now, and theboys at the club, and the girl at her party forgot all about such atrivial thing as poor old Santa Claus and his stocking, but Grannie wasvery thankful that the stockings should hang at the foot of the bedsfor the last time. When all was done and the kitchen made as neat as anew pin she fell on her knees and uttered a short prayer--a prayerwhich was more praise than prayer. She then got into bed, and quicklyfell asleep; for she was very tired, and, wonderful to say, her handand arm did not ache as much as usual. 

Not far away was Tragedy coming to meet her with quick strides, but thelittle woman was under the shadow of God's wing to-night, and hadneither fear nor trouble. 

CHAPTER X. 

When Alison arrived at the Clays' the fun was in full swing. The housewas crowded--not only the long sitting room, but the little hall, and agood way up the stairs. A stage had been erected at one end of thesitting room; on this stage now the actors were disporting themselves. As Alison had not arrived in time for supper, no one took any notice ofher when she appeared. She found that it was quite impossible to hopeto get a corner, either to sit or stand, in the room where the actingwas going on. She had, therefore, to content herself with leaning upagainst the wall in the passage, and now and then bending forward so asto see the one person about whom she was the least interested--Jimhimself. 

The play was a very poor affair, and consisted of several short scenesacted in the style of charades, with impromptu conversations, whichmostly consisted of coarse jests and innuendoes; but the loud laughterof the spectators assured Alison that this style of thing was quite upto their level. She felt rather sickened at Jim's taking part inanything so commonplace; but her love for him, which grew daily, gaveher a certain sense of rest and happiness at even being in hisvicinity. He did not know she was there, but that mattered little ornothing. When the play was over he would come out and see her, andthen everything would be smooth and delightful. She forgot to bejealous of Louisa; she even forgot the fact that a few short weeks agoshe had been publicly accused of theft; she only knew that she wore herbest frock; she was only conscious that she looked her best andbrightest, that when Jim's eyes did rest upon her he could not butacknowledge her charm; she was only well aware that it was ChristmasEve, and that all the world was rejoicing. She stood, therefore, inthe crowded hall with a smiling face, her hands lightly, clasped infront of her, her thoughts full of peace, and yet stimulated to acertain excited joy. 

Between the acts people began to go in and out of the large sittingroom, and on these occasions Alison was jostled about a good bit. Shewas quite pushed up against the stairs, and had some difficulty inkeeping her balance. She saw a man stare at her with a very coarsesort of admiration. She did not know the man, and she shrank from hisgaze; but the next moment she saw him speaking to a girl who she knewbelonged to Shaw's establishment. The girl's reply came distinctly toher ears. 

"Yes, I suppose she is pretty enough, " she said. "We always spoke ofher as genteel at Shaw's. Oh, you want to know her name, Mr. Manners?Her name is Alison Reed. She left Shaw's because she stole afive-pound note. It was awfully good of him not to prosecute her. "

"That girl a thief!" said the man who was addressed as Manners. "Idon't believe it. "

"Oh, but she is! She was in such a fright that she left the shop thevery day she was accused. That shows guilt--don't it, now?"

Alison could not hear Manners' reply, but after a time, the sharp voiceof the girl again reached her ears. 

"They do say as Jim Hardy, our foreman, was sweet on her, but of coursehe has given her up now; he is all agog for Louisa Clay, the girl he isacting with to-night. They say they are sweethearts, and they'll bemarried early in the year. It is a very good match for him, for Louisahas lots of money and----"

The speakers moved on, and Alison could not catch another word. Shehad gained a comfortable position for herself now, and was leaningfirmly against the wall. The words which had reached her she fully andcompletely realized. She was accustomed to being considered a thief;she always would be considered a thief until that five-pound note wasfound. It was very painful, it was bitter to be singled out in thatway, to have attention drawn to her as such a character; but the wordswhich related to Jim she absolutely laughed at. Was not Jim her ownfaithful lover? Would he not see her home to-night, believing in herfully and entirely? Oh, yes. Whatever the world at large thought ofher, she was good enough for Jim. Yes, yes. She would promise to behis to-night, she would not wait until next Tuesday. What was the goodof pushing happiness away when it came so close? A cup full of suchluck was not offered to every girl. She would drink it up; she wouldenjoy it to the full. Then envious and malicious tongues would have tobe quiet, for she would prove by her engagement that Jim, at least, believed in her. She drew up her head proudly as this thought came toher. 

The next act in the noisy little play was just beginning, and those whocared for seats in the room were pushing forward; the crowd in thepassage was therefore less oppressive. Alison moved forward a step ortwo, and stood in such a position that she was partly sheltered by acurtain. She had scarcely done so before, to her great astonishment, Hardy and Louisa came out. They stood together for a moment or two inthe comparatively deserted passage. Other characters occupied thestage for the time being, and Louisa was glad to get into thecomparatively fresh air to cool herself. 

"Oh, aint it hot?" she said. "Fan me, " she added, offering Jim a hugefan gaudily painted in many colors. 

She unfurled it as she spoke, and put it into his hand. 

"Make a breeze o' some sort, " she said; "do, or I'll faint!"

Jim looked pleased and excited. He was fantastically dressed in thestage costume in which he had shortly to appear. Alison, partlysheltered by the curtain, could see well without being seen herself. 

"The play is going splendid, Jim, " said Louisa. "I'm ever so pleased. "

"I am glad of that, " replied Jim. 

"I thought you would be. Well, I do feel a happy girl to-night. "

"And when is it to be?" said Jim, bending down and looking earnestlyinto her face. 

She flushed when he spoke to her, and immediately lowered her eyes. 

"I aint made up my mind quite yet, " she said. 

"But you will?" he replied, in a voice full of solicitude. 

"I don't know. Would it please you if I did?"

"I needn't say that it would, " was the reply. "I think it would makeme real happy. "

"Well, ef I thought that----"

Louisa took her fan out of Jim Hardy's hand and began to toy with it ina somewhat affected manner. Then her expression changed to one ofabsolute passion. 

"I don't think there is anything in heaven above, or the earth beneath, I wouldn't do, Jim Hardy, even to please you for half an hour; toplease you is the light of life to me. So, if you wish it, let itbe--there! I can't say any more, can I?"

"You can't; you have said enough, " he replied gravely. "There is ourcall, " he added; "we must go back. Are you cooler now?"

"Much cooler, thanks to you. "

The call came a second time. Louisa hurried forward; Jim followed her. Neither of them noticed the listening girl behind the curtain. Thenext moment loud cheers filled the room as Hardy and Louisa took theirplaces side by side in the front of the stage. 

Alison waited until the great uproar had subsided, then she slippedinto the dressing room where she had gone on her arrival, put on herhat and jacket steadily and calmly, and went home. She had nointention now of waiting for Jim. She never meant to wait for Jim anymore. He was false as no man had ever been false before. She wouldforget him, she would drive him out of her life. He had dared to comeand talk of marriage to her when he really loved another girl; he haddared to give her words of tenderness when his heart was with LouisaClay. 

"It is all over, " whispered Alison quite quietly under her breath. 

She wondered, in a dull sort of fashion, why she felt so quiet; why shedid not suffer a great deal more; why the sense of disappointment andcruel desertion did not break her heart. She was sure that by and byher heart would awaken, and pain--terrible, intense pain would be herportion; but just now she felt quiet and stunned. She was glad ofthis. It was Christmas Eve, but Jim was not walking home with her. The Christmas present she had hoped for was not to be hers. Well, never mind, to-morrow would be Christmas Day. Jim was invited todinner, to that good dinner which Grannie had no right to buy, butwhich Grannie had bought to give the children one last happy day. Alison herself had made the cake and had frosted it, and Alison herselfhad stirred the pudding, and had thought of Jim's face as it would lookwhen he sat with the children round the family board. He would neversit there now; she must never see him again. She would write to himthe moment she got in, and then, having put him out of her life onceand for ever, she would help Grannie to keep the Merry Christmas. 

She walked up the weary number of steps to the flat on the fifth floor. She found the key under the mat, and then went in. Grannie had lefteverything ready for her. Grannie had thought of a betrothed maidenwho would enter the little house with the air of a queen who had comesuddenly into her kingdom. Grannie, who was sound asleep at thismoment, had no idea that Despair itself was coming home in the lasthours just before the blessed Christmas broke. Alison opened the doorvery softly, and, going into the kitchen, took down her writingportfolio from a little shelf where she generally kept it, and wrote ashort letter to Jim. 

"Dear Jim: I have made up my mind, and in this letter you will get yourfinal answer. I will not marry anybody until I am cleared of thistrouble about the five-pound note; and whether I am cleared or not, Ishall never marry you, _for I don't love you_. I found out to-night itwas all a mistake, and what I thought was love was not. I don't loveyou, Jim, and I never wish to see you again. Please don't come todinner to-morrow, and please don't ever try to see me. This is final. I don't love you; that is your answer. 

"ALISON REED. "

Having signed the letter in a very firm hand, Alison put it into anenvelope, addressed and stamped it. She then went out and dropped itinto a pillar-box near by. Jim would get it on Christmas morning. 

CHAPTER XI. 

Christmas Day went by. It was quiet enough, although the childrenshouted with glee over their stockings and ate their dinner heartily. There was a depressed feeling under all the mirth, although Alison woreher very best dress and laughed and sang, and in the evening playedblindman's buff with the children. There was a shadow over the home, although Grannie talked quietly in the corner of the Blessed Prince ofPeace, and of the true reason for Christmas joy. Jim's place wasempty, but no one remarked it. The children were too happy to misshim, and the elder members of the party were too wise to say what theyreally felt. 

Boxing Day was almost harder to bear than Christmas Day. Alison stayedquietly in the house all the morning, but toward the afternoon she grewrestless. 

"Dave, " she said, "will you and Harry come for a walk with me?"

"To be sure, " answered both the boys, brightening up. The little girlsclamored to accompany them. 

"No, no, " said Grannie, "you'll stay with me. I have a job on hand, and I want you to help me. It is tearing up old letters, and puttinglots of things in order. And maybe I'll give you a chocolate each whenit is done. "

The promise of the chocolates was comforting, and the little onesstayed at home not ill pleased. Alison went out with her two brothers. She held herself very erect, and there was a proud look on her face. She had never looked handsomer nor more a lady. David felt very proudof her. He did not understand her just now, it is true, but he waspleased when people turned round to look at her; and when admiringglances came in her way, he walked close to her with an air ofprotection, and was glad that his sister was better looking than otherfellows'. They all turned their steps in the direction of VictoriaPark. They had just got there when quick footsteps overtook them, andJim Hardy came up. 

"Hullo, " he said, when he approached the little party. "Stop, can'tyou? I have been running after you all this time. "

David and Harry both stopped, but Alison walked on. 

"That's all right, " said Jim, nodding to the boys. "You stay back abit, won't you, like good fellows? I want to have a talk with yoursister. "

Harry felt inclined to demur, for he was fond of Jim, and his ownpleasure always was first with him; but David understood, and grippedhis brother's arm fiercely, holding him back. 

"Keep back, " he said, in a whisper; "can't you see for yourself thatthere's trouble there?"

"Trouble where?" said Harry, opening his eyes. 

"You are a muff. Can't you see that something has put Alison out?"

"I can see that she is very disagreeable, " said Harry. "I suppose sheis in love, that's what it means. She is in love with Jim Hardy. Buthe is going to marry Louisa Clay; everybody says so. "

"Shut up, " said David. "You are a silly. Hardy thinks no more ofLouisa than he does of you. "

"Well, let us make for the pond and leave them alone, " said Harry. "Ido believe the ice will bear in a day or two. "

The boys rushed off to the right, and Alison and Jim walked down thebroad center path. Alison's heart was beating wildly. The love whichshe was trying to slay rose up like a giant in her heart. 

"But I won't show it, " thought the proud girl to herself. "He shallnever, never think that I fret because he has thrown me over foranother. If, loving me, he could care for Louisa, he is not my sort. No, I won't fret, no, I won't; I'll show him that I don't care. "

"I'm glad I met you, " said Jim. Jim was a very proud fellow, too, inhis own way. Alison's queer letter had pierced him to the quick. Nothaving the faintest clew to her reason for writing it, he was feelingjustly very angry. 

"I didn't come in yesterday, " he continued, "when you made it so plainthat you didn't want me; but, all the same, I felt that we must talkthis matter out. "

"There's nothing to talk out, " said Alison. "You knew my mind when yougot that letter, and that's about all I've got to say. "

"That letter was a lie from first to last, " said Jim boldly. 

Alison turned and looked full at him. Her face was white. Her bigblue eyes blazed and looked dark. 

"The letter was true, " she said. "Girls can't help being contrary nowand then. I don't want to see you again, I don't want to have anythingto do with you. I made a mistake when I said I loved you. I found outjust in time that I didn't. It was a right good thing I found it outbefore we was wed, instead of afterwards; I did, and we are safe, andyou can give yourself, heart and soul, with a clear conscience, toanother. "

"I can't make out what you are driving at, " said Jim. "You knowperfectly well, Alison, that I love no one in all the world butyourself. "

"Oh! don't you?" said Alison. 

"Really, Ally, you will drive me mad if you go on talking in thatunreasonable way. Of course I don't care for anyone but you, and youalways gave me to understand that you returned my love. Come, darlin', what is it? You must know that after all you have said to me in thepast, I can't believe that letter of yours; it is all against commonsense. People can't love and then unlove in that sort o' fashion. Tell me the truth, Ally. Something made you angry; and you love me asmuch as ever, don't you, darlin'? Come, let us make it up. There issomething at the bottom of this, and you ought to tell me. As to yournot loving me, that is all fudge, you know. "

Alison's heart, which had lain so dead in her breast, began suddenly tostir and dance with a queer excitement. After all, had she made amistake? Was Jim really faithful to her after all? But, no; how couldshe mistake? She had heard the words herself. Oh, yes, of course, Jimwas false; and for all he had such an honest voice, and the truest eyesin all the world, Alison must turn her back on him, for she could notdoubt the hearing of her own ears and the seeing of her own eyes. 

"I am sorry, " she said, in a cold voice, when Jim had paused and lookedeagerly for her answer. "I am sorry, but after all it is a pity thatwe met to-day, for my letter really told you everything. I don't loveyou. You wouldn't marry a girl what didn't love you; would you, Jim?"

"No, no, " said Jim; "no marriage could be happy, it would be a cruelmistake, without love. It seems to me that marriage is a sin, an awfulsin, if there aint love to make it beautiful. "

"Well, then, it would be a sin for us to marry, " said Alison. "You cansee that for yourself. You need have no scruples, Jim; you can do whatyou wish. "

"Well, that is to marry you, " said Jim. "Come, Ally, there is astrange thing over you, my dearie, but show me your true self onceagain. Come, darlin'. Why, you are going nigh to break my heart, theway you are going on. "

For a moment Alison's belief in what she had herself seen was staggeredby Jim's words and the ring of pain in his voice, but only for amoment. The thought of Louisa and the tender way he had looked at her, and her bold words of passion, were too vivid to be long suppressed. Alison's voice took a note of added scorn as she replied:

"It's real shabby o' you to worry me when I have given you a straightanswer. I don't love you, not a bit, but there's another girl whatdoes. Go to her--go and be happy with her. "

"What do you mean?" said Jim, turning pale. 

Alison's eyes were fixed angrily on him. 

"Oh, I see, I can move you at last, " she Said. "You didn't think thatI could guess, but I can. Go to Louisa--she loves you well, and Idon't--I never did--it was all a big mistake. Girls like me oftenfancy they love, and then when the thing comes near they see that theydon't; marriage is an awful thing without love--it is a sin. Go andmarry Louisa; she'll make you a good wife. "

"Alison, " said Jim, "there can be only one explanation to the way youare going on to-day. "

"And what is that?" she asked. 

"There must be someone you like better than me. "

"Of course there is, " said Alison, with a shrill laugh. 

"I love Grannie better than him. I love Dave better, " whispered theexcited girl wildly, under her breath. 

"Of course there is, " she repeated. "There is nothing for opening theeyes like seeing your true love at last. "

"Then you _have_ explained matters, and I haven't a word to say, "answered Jim, in a haughty voice. 

He drew himself up, --his eyes looked straight into hers, --she shivered, but did not flinch; the next moment he had turned on his heels andwalked away. 

He walked quickly, leaving the miserable, distracted girl alone. Hethought he understood at last; Alison had another lover. Who could hebe? Jim had certainly never heard of anybody else. Still, this wasthe true explanation--she had admitted as much herself. 

"Go to Louisa Clay--she loves you well, " the angry girl had said to him. 

Well, why should not he go to Louisa? Louisa was not his style, butshe was handsome, and she had a good bit of money, and he had guessedlong ago that she loved him. He did not want to hear of Alison's newlover, and of Alison's engagement, and of Alison's marriage withoutputting some shield between himself and the bitter words that would bespoken, and the laugh that would be all against him. He was proud aswell as steadfast; he was daring as well as true. If Alison could givehim up as she had done, why should he not take the lesser good? It wastrue that Louisa had admitted, or almost admitted, her engagement toSampson, which was really the wedding poor Jim had alluded to onChristmas Eve; but Jim knew that matters were not settled in thatdirection yet, and he was too angry just now not to feel a keen desireto cut Sampson out. He went straight, therefore, to the Clays' house. His heart was just in that sort of tempest of feeling when men so oftentake a rash step and lay up misery for themselves for the whole oftheir remaining days. 

Mr. And Mrs. Clay were out, but Louisa was at home; she had a cold, andhad not cared to venture out in the raw December air. Jim was showninto a snug little parlor at the back of the shop. Louisa wasbecomingly dressed, and looked remarkably handsome. She started withpleasure when she saw Jim, colored up to her eyes, and then noticingsomething which she had never noticed before in his glance, lookeddown, trembling and overcome. At that moment her love made herbeautiful. Jim saw it trembling on her lips. The reaction between herwarmth and Alison's frozen manner was too much for him; he made astride forward, and the next moment had taken her in his arms; hiskisses rested on her lips. She gave a sigh of ineffable bliss. 

"Oh, Jim!" she said, "has it come to this? Am I to have my heart'sdesire after all?"

"If I am your heart's desire, you can have me, and welcome, " answeredJim. 

"Oh, Jim! I love you so much. I am the happiest gel in all the world. Kiss me again, do. Oh, how I love you!"

"My dear girl, " said the young man. 

He did not say yet that he loved her back again, but his heart wasbeating high. At that moment he was not proof against her beauty, which in its own way was remarkable. 

"Then we're engaged, " she said. "Oh, Jim, is it true that suchhappiness is come to me? I feel sort o' frightened. I never, neverthought that such good could come to me. "

"We're engaged, that is if we can be straight and above-board, "answered Jim; "but first I must know what about Sampson. He has askedyou to be his wife, hasn't he?"

"Yes, yes. Oh, don't trouble about him. Sit close to me, can't you, and kiss me again. "

"I must know about Sampson first, " said Jim. "Have you given him apromise?"

"Not yet, I don't love him a bit, you see; but when I thought you'dnever come forward, and that all your heart was given to AlisonReed----"

Jim shuddered and drew himself away from Louisa. 

"I thought, " she continued, "that George Sampson would be better thannobody, so I told him he might come for his answer to-night, and he'llget it too. He always knew that I loved yer. Why, he even said so. He said to me, not a week ago, 'You can't win him, Louisa, so don'twaste your breath on him, but come to an honest fellow what loves yer, and who don't think nothing of any other gel. '"

"But doesn't it seem hard on the honest fellow?" said Jim, with a smile. 

"Oh, no, it don't! Do you think I'd look at him after what you havesaid? Oh, I'm so happy! Sit by me, and tell me when you first thoughtof throwing over Alison Reed for me?"

"Listen, " said Jim. "There is nothing now between Alison and me. I'lltry to make you a good mate; I will try to do everything to make youhappy, and to give you back love for love; but if you value our futurehappiness, you must make me a promise now. "

"What's that?" she asked, looking up at him, frightened at thesolemnity in his tone. 

"You must never talk of Alison to me. Promise, do you hear?"

"Oh, why not? You can't care for her a bit, or you wouldn't come tome. "

"I like you most--I wouldn't ask you to marry me if I didn't; but Iwon't talk of Alison. If you can't have me without bringing up hername, say so at once, and everything shall be at an end between us. Now you have got to choose. Alison's name is not to pass yer lips tome. We are not to talk of her, do you understand? Do you promise?"

"I promise anything--anything, if you will only kiss me again. "

CHAPTER XII. 

The next day it was all over the place that Jim Hardy and Louisa Claywere engaged. Harry heard the news as he was coming home from doing amessage for Grannie; Grannie heard it when she went shopping; Alisonheard it from the boy who sold the milk--in short, this little bit oftidings of paramount interest in Alison's small world was dinned intoher ears wherever she turned. Jim was engaged. His friends thoughtthat he had done very well for himself, and it was arranged that thewedding was to take place just before Lent. Lent would fall early thisyear, and Jim's engagement would not last much over six weeks. 

Notwithstanding all she had said the day before, Alison turned verypale when the cruel news came to her. 

"What can it mean?" said Grannie, who followed the girl into herbedroom. "I don't understand it--there must be an awful mistakesomewhere. You can't, surely, have thrown over a good fellow likethat, Alison?"

"No, he threw me over, " said Alison. 

"Child, I jest don't believe yer. "

"All right, Grannie; I'm afraid I can't help it whether you believe meor not. Jim is dead to me now, and we won't talk of him any more. Grannie dear, let us go into the kitchen; you and I have something elseto attend to. What is to come o' me? What am I to do for myself nowthat I can't get a situation for want of a character, and now that Ihave lost my young man?"

Alison laughed in a bitter way as she said the last words. She lookedstraight out of the window, and avoided meeting Grannie's clear blueeyes. 

"I must get something to do, " said Alison. "I am young, and strong, and capable, and the fact of having a false charge laid to my doorcan't mean surely that I am to starve. I must get work, Grannie; Imust learn to support myself and the children. Oh, and you, you dearold lady; for you can't do much, now that your 'and is so bad. "

"It do get worse, " said Grannie, in a solemn voice; "it pains and burnsawful now and then, and the thumb and forefinger are next touseless--they aint got any power in 'em. 'Taint like my usual luck, that it aint. I can't understand it anyhow. But there, child, for theLord's sake don't worry about an old body like me. Thank the Lord forhis goodness, I am at the slack time o' life, and I don't want nothought and little or no care. I aint the p'int--it's you that's thep'int, Ally--you and the chil'en. "

"Well, what is to be done, grandmother? It seems to me that we havenot a day to lose. We never could save much, there was too great adrag on your earnings, and mine seemed swept up by rent and twentyother things, and now neither you nor I have been earning anything forweeks. We can't have much money left now, have we?"

"We have got one pound ten, " said Grannie. "I looked at the purse thismorning. One pound ten, and sevenpence ha'penny in coppers; that'sall. That wouldn't be a bad sum if there was anythink more coming in;but seeing as ther' aint, it is uncommon likely to dwindle, look at itfrom what p'int you may. "

"Well, then, we haven't an hour to lose, " said Alison. 

"We haven't an hour to lose, " repeated Grannie. She looked around thelittle room; her voice was cheerful, but there was a dreary expressionin her eyes. Alison noticed it. She got up and kissed her. 

"Don't, child, don't; it aint good to move the feelin's when things isa bit rough, as they are now. We have got to be firm, Alison, and wehave got to be brave, and there aint no manner o' use drawing on thefeelin's. Keep 'em under, say I, and stand straight to your guns. It's a tough bit o' battle we're goin' through, but we must stand toour guns, that's wot I say. "

"And I too, " said the girl, stiffening herself under the words ofcourage. "Well now, I know you are a very wise woman, Grannie; what'sto be done?"

"I am going to see Mr. Williams, that old clergyman in Bayswater wotwas so good to me when my husband died. I am going to see himto-morrow, " said Grannie. "Arter I have had a good spell of talk withhim, I'll tell you more. "

"Do you think he could get me a situation?"

"Maybe he could. "

"I wish you would go to him at once, Grannie. There really doesn'tseem to be a day to be lost. "

"What's the hour, child? I don't mind going to him now, but I thoughtit might be a bit late. "

"Not at all; you'll see him when he comes home to dinner. Shall I gowith you? Somehow I pine for a change and a bit of the air. "

"No, darlin', I'd best see him by myself, and then there's the bus fareto consider; but ef you'd walk with me as far as St. Paul's Churchyard, I'd be much obleeged, and you can see me into the bus. I am werrystrong, thank the Lord; but somehow, when the crowd jostle and push, they seem to take my nerve off--particular since this 'and got so bad. "

Grannie went into her little room to get ready for her expedition, andAlison also pinned on her hat and buttoned on her pilot-cloth jacket. Grannie put on her best clothes for this occasion. She came outequipped for her interview in her neat black shawl and little quiltedbonnet. The excitement had brought a bright color to her cheeks and anadded light to her blue eyes. 

"Why, Grannie, how pretty you look, " said her granddaughter. "Ideclare you are the very prettiest old lady I ever saw. "

Grannie was accustomed to being told that she was good-looking. Shedrew herself up and perked her little face. 

"The Phippses were always remarked for their skins, " she said;"beautiful they was, although my poor mother used to say that wot'sskin-deep aint worth considering. Still, a good skin is from the Lord, and he gave it to the Phippses with other good luck; no mistake on thatp'int. "

The next moment the two set out. It was certainly getting late in theday, but Alison cheered Grannie on, repeating several times in a firmand almost defiant manner that there was not an hour to be lost. Theygot to St. Paul's Churchyard, and Alison helped Grannie to get into anomnibus. The old woman got a seat near the door, and smiled and noddedbrightly to her granddaughter as the bus rolled away. Alison went backvery slowly to her home. She had a terrible depression over her, andlonged almost frantically for something to do. All her life she hadbeen a very active girl. No granddaughter of Mrs. Reed's was likely togrow up idle, and Alison, almost from the time she could think, hadbeen accustomed to fully occupy each moment of her day. Now the longday dragged, while despair clutched at her heart. What had she done?What sin had she committed to be treated so cruelly? Grannie wasreligious; she was accustomed to referring things to God. There was aRock on which her spirit dwelt which Alison knew nothing about. Now, the thought of Grannie and her religion stirred the girl's heart in thequeerest way. 

"I don't do any good, " she said to herself; "seems as if the Lorddidn't care for poor folks, or he wouldn't let all this sort of thingcome on me. It aint as if I weren't always respectable; it aint as ifI didn't always try to do what's right. Then there's so much bad luckjist now come all of a heap: Grannie's bad hand, which means the lossof our daily bread, and this false accusation of me, and then my losingJim. Oh, dear, that's the worst part, but I won't think of that now, Iwon't. I feel that I could go mad if I thought much of that. "

When Alison returned to the flat in Sparrow Street it was in time toget tea for the children. The little larder was becoming sadly bare;the Christmas feast was almost all eaten up, and Alison could onlyprovide the children with very dry bread, and skim milk largely dilutedwith water. 

"Grannie wouldn't treat us like that, " said Kitty, who was extremelyfond of her meals. 

"You may be thankful if you even get dry bread soon, " said Alison. 

The three little girls stared up at her with wondering, terrified eyes. Her tone was very morose. They saw that she was unapproachable, andlooked down again. They ate their unpalatable meal quickly, and insilence. Alison kept the kettle boiling on the fire against Grannie'sreturn. 

"You haven't taken any tea yourself, " said Polly, who was Alison'sroom-fellow, and the most affectionate of the three. 

"I aint hungry, dear; don't notice it, " said the elder sister in asomewhat gentler tone. "Now you may run, all of you, and have a playin the court. "

"But it's quite dark, and Grannie doesn't like us to be out in thedark. "

"I don't think she'll mind when I tell her that I gave you leave. Ihave a splitting headache and must be alone for a bit. It is a drynight, and the three of you keep close together, and then you'll cometo no harm. There, run off now, and don't bother me. "

Kitty stared hard at her sister; Polly's eyes flashed with pleasure atthe thought of a bit of unexpected fun; Annie was only too anxious tobe off. Soon Alison had the little kitchen to herself. She sat by thefire, feeling very dull and heavy; her thoughts would keep circulatinground unpleasant subjects: the one pound ten and sevenpence halfpennywhich stood between the family and starvation; Jim and Louisa--Louisa'sface full of triumph, and her voice full of pride, and Jim's devotionto her; Grannie's painful right hand, and the feather-stitching whichshe, Alison, had never taken the trouble to learn. 

"The old lady was right, " she said, half under her breath, half aloud. "She's a deal wiser than me, and I might have done worse that followher advice. I wish I knew the stitch now; yes, I do. Oh! is that you, Dave?" as her brother came in; "but we have done tea. "

"I have had some, " said David. "Mr. Watson called me into his room, and gave me a cup. What is it, Ally; what's the matter?"

"You needn't ask, " said Alison. "You don't suppose I am likely to bevery cheerful just now. "

"I am ever so sorry, " said the boy. "I can't think how this troublecome to you. "

"If it's Jim, " she answered angrily, "you needn't worry to find out, for I'll tell you. I don't love him no more. He would have married meif I cared to have him, but I didn't see my way to it. Now let's dropthe subject. "

David sat down not far from the fire. He held out his hands to theblaze. There was a sort of pleased excitement about him which Alisonafter a time could not help noticing. 

"You look quite perky about something, " she said. "It is good for anyof us to be cheerful just now. What's up?"

"Where's Grannie?" said Dave. "I'd like to tell her first. "

"Oh, very well, just as you please. But she is out. She won't be backfor a good bit yet. "

"Aint it very late for her to be out? Where is she gone?"

"To Bayswater--to talk to a clergyman who used to befriend us in theold days. What is your news, David? You may as well tell me. "

"Why, it's this. Mr. Watson has just had a long talk with me. Hewants me to help him with the accounts, and not to do messages anymore. He could get a lad for messages, he says, who hasn't got such ahead on his shoulders as I have. I can do bookkeeping pretty well, andhe'll give me some more lessons. I am to start next week doingoffice-work, and he'll give me five shillings a week instead of half acrown. I call that prime; don't you, Alison?"

"To be sure it is, " she answered heartily. She was very fond of David, and the note of exultation in his voice touched her, and penetratedthrough the deep gloom at her heart. 

"Why, this will cheer Grannie, " she continued. 

"There's more to tell yet, " continued David, "for I am to have my mealsas well as the five shillings a week; so there'll be half a crown atthe very least to put to the family purse, Alison, and I need be noexpense, only just to sleep here. I'll bring the five shillings toGrannie every Saturday night, and she can spend just what I want forclothes and keep the rest. I guess she'll make it go as far asanybody. "

"This is good news, " continued Alison. "Of course five shillings is asight better nor nothing, and if I only got a place we might keep thehome together. "

"Why, is there any fear of our losing it?" asked David. 

"Dear me, David, can we keep it on nothing at all? There's Grannie notearning sixpence, and there's me not earning sixpence; and how is therent to be paid, and us all to be kept in food and things? It aint tobe done--you might have the common sense to know that. "

"To be sure I might, " said David, his brow clouding. "After all, then, I don't suppose the five shillings is much help. "

"Oh, yes, it will support you whatever happens, and that's a good deal. Don't fret, Dave; you are a right, good, manly fellow. You will fightyour way in the world yet, and Grannie and me we'll be proud of you. Iwish I had half the pluck you have; but there, I am so down now thatnothing seems to come right. I wish I had had the sense to learn thatfeather-stitching that you do so beautifully. "

David colored. 

"I aint ashamed to say that I know it, " he said. "I dare say I couldteach it to you if you had a mind to learn it. "

But Alison shook her head. 

"No; it's too late now, " she said. "It takes months and months ofpractice to make a stitch like that to come to look anything likeright, and we want the money at once. We have got scarcely any left, and there's the rent due on Monday, and the little girls want newshoes--Kitty's feet were wringing wet when she came in to-day. Oh, yes, I don't see how we are to go on. But Grannie will tell us whenshe comes back. Oh, and here she is. "

Alison flew to the door and opened it. Mrs. Reed, looking bright andexcited, entered. 

"Why, where are the little ones?" she said at once. "Aint they readingtheir books, like good children?"

"No, Grannie. I'd a headache, and I let them go into the court to playa bit. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not for once, I don't, " said Grannie; "but, Dave, lad, you'd betterfetch 'em in now, for it's getting real late. They may as well gostraight off to bed, for I have a deal I want to talk over with you twoto-night. "

Alison felt impatient and anxious; she could scarcely wait to hearGrannie's news. The old lady sat down near the fire, uttering a deepsigh of relief as she did so. 

"Ally, my dear, " she said, "I'm as weary as if I were seventy-eightinstead of sixty-eight. It's a long walk back from St. Paul'sChurchyard, and there was a crowd out, to be sure; but it's a finestarlight night, and I felt as I was walking along, the Lord's in hisheaven, and there can never be real bad luck for us, his servants, whattrusts in him. "

Alison frowned. She wished Grannie would not quote Scripture so muchas she had done lately. It jarred upon her own queer, perverse mood;but as she saw the courageous light in the blue eyes she suppressed animpatient sigh which almost bubbled to her lips. She got tea forGrannie, who drank it in great contentment. David brought the childrenin. They kissed Grannie, and were hustled off to bed, rather to theirown disgust, and then David, Grannie, and Alison sat gravely down, andlooked each at the other. 

"Where's Harry?" said Grannie suddenly. "Why aint the boy to home?"

"I expect he's at the Boys' Club, " said David. "He's very fond ofrunning round there in the evening. "

"There's no harm in that, Grannie, " said Alison. "Don't fret aboutHarry. Now tell us your news, do. Did you see Mr. Williams, and canhe do anything?"

"I saw Mr. Williams, " said Grannie. "He remembered me quite well. Itold him everything. It seems to me that he has put things straight. I don't say that things aint sore--no, I don't go to pretend theyaint--but somehow they seem straightened out a bit, and I know wot todo. "

"And what's that, Grannie?" asked David, taking her left hand verytenderly in his as he spoke. 

Grannie had been leaning back in a sort of restless attitude. Now shestraightened herself up and looked keenly at the boy. 

"It means, lad, " she said, after a pause, "the sore part means this, that we must give up the little bit of a home. "

"We must give it up?" said David, in a blank sort of way. "Oh, wait awhile; you don't know about my five shillings a week. "

"Dave has got a rise, " interrupted Alison. "Mr. Watson thinks a sightof him, and he's to go into the house as a clerk, and he's to have fiveshillings a week and his meals. So he's provided for. "

"But your five shillings a week won't keep up the home, Dave, sothere's no use thinking of it, from that p'int o' view. "

"Go on, please, Grannie; what else have you and Mr. Williams arranged?"

"It's the Lord has arranged it, child, " said Grannie, "it aint Mr. Williams. It's that thought that makes me kind o' cheerful over it. "

"But what is it, Grannie? We are to give up the home?"

"Well, the home gives us up, " said Grannie, "for we can't keep therooms ef we can't pay the rent, and the children can't be fed withoutmoney. To put it plain, as far as the home goes, we're broke. That'splain English. It's this 'and that has done it, and I'll never believein eddication from this time forward; but there's no use goin' back onthat now. Thank the Lord, I has everything settled and clear in mymind. I pay the last rent come Monday, and out we go. "

"But where to?" said Alison. "There's a lot of us, and we must livesomewhere. "

"It's all settled, and beautiful too, " said Grannie. "Mr. Williamsknows a lady who 'll be right glad to have you, Alison. The lady is afriend of his, and she wants a sort of upper maid, and though you are aPhipps and a Simpson and a Reed all in one, you needn't be too proud todo work o' that sort. He said she was quite certain to take to you, and you are to go to see her to-morrow morning. She lives inBayswater, and wants a girl who will attend on her and go messages forher and keep her clothes in order. It will be a very light, genteelsort o' place, and you'll have a right good time there, Alison. Andthen the three little girls. Mr. Williams said it was wonderful luckyI called to-day, for he has got three vacancies for a school for orphanchildren in the country, and for a wonder he don't know any specialorphan children to give them to this time, and he says that Kitty andPolly and Annie can go, and they'll be well fed, and well taught, andwell clothed, and when they are old enough they'll go to serviceperhaps. Anyhow, they'll be taught how to earn their living. So theyare settled for, and so are you, and it seems as if David's settled fortoo. As to Harry, I told Mr. Williams all about him, and he says he'llthink what he can do; he expects he can get him taken on somewhere, forhe is a smart lad, although a bit wild in his ways. "

"But what is to come of you, Grannie?" said Alison, after a long pause. 

Grannie jumped up when Alison made this remark. 

"Well, I'm goin' on a visit, " she said, "jest to freshen me up. Itdon't matter a bit about me--life is slacking down with me, and thereaint the least cause to worry. I'm goin' on a visit; don't you fret, children. "

"But where to?" asked Alison. "You don't know anybody. I have neverheard that you had any friends. The Phippses and the Simpsons are alldead, all those you used to know. "

"I'm goin' to some friends of Mr. Williams, " said Grannie, "and I'll bewerry comfortable and I can stay as long as I like. Now, for theLord's sake don't begin to fret 'bout me; it's enough to anger me efyou do. Aint we a heap to do atween this and Monday without fussin'over an old lady wot 'as 'ad the best o' good luck all her days? Thisis Tuesday, and you are to go and see Mrs. Faulkner to-morrow morning, Alison. I have got her address, and you are to be there by teno'clock, not a minute later. Oh, yes, our hands will be full, and wehave no time to think o' the future. The Lord has the future in hisgrip, chil'en, and 'taint for you and me to fret about it. "

Grannie seated herself again in her old armchair. 

"Fetch the Bible, Dave, " she said suddenly, "and read a verse or twoaloud. "

David rose to comply. He took the family Bible from its place on theshelf. Grannie opened the old book reverently. 

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abideunder the shadow of the Almighty, " read David. 

Grannie looked solemnly at the boy while the words so familiar andcomforting fell from his lips. He read or to the end of themagnificent Psalm. 

"I guess there's a power of luck in that hidin' place for them as canfind it, " she said, when he had finished. 

Then she kissed the boy and girl and went abruptly away to her own room. 

"What does she mean by going on a visit?" said David to his sister. 

"I don't know, " said Alison fearfully. 

"It can't be----" began David. 

"No, no; don't say it, Dave, " interrupted Alison. "Don't say italoud, don't----" She clapped her hands suddenly to his lips. "Ican't bear it, " she said suddenly. "I won't hear it. No, it's avisit. It's all true; it's only a visit. Good-night, Dave. "

She went away to her own room. During the darkness and misery of thatnight Alison scarcely slept; but old Grannie slept. God had given hisangels charge of her, and no one ever had more peaceful slumber. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Monday came all too quickly. Grannie was very masterful during the fewdays which went before. She insisted on all the grandchildren doingexactly what she told them. There were moments when she was almoststern; she had always been authoritative, and had a certain commandingway about her. This week, even Alison did not dare to cross her in thesmallest matter. There was not a single hitch in the arrangementswhich Mr. Williams had sketched out. Mrs. Faulkner took a great fancyto Alison, absolutely believed in her honesty and truth, and engagedher for a month's trial on the spot. She told her to be sure to bewith her by ten o'clock on Monday to begin her new duties. Granniewent herself to see Mr. Watson; she had a private talk with him whichno one knew anything about. He told her that David was a boy in ahundred, that he was certain to do well, for he was both clever andconscientious. He said that he could easily manage to fit up a bed forhim in the back part of the shop; so he was provided for, and, according to Grannie and Mr. Watson, provided for well. When Harryheard of the family's exodus, he left the house without a word. Hecame back in the course of two or three hours, and told Mrs. Reed whathe had done. 

"I am going to sea, " he announced. "I saw the captain of the _Brigand_down at the West India Docks, and he'll take me as cabin boy. I daresay the life is a bit rough, but I know I shall like it. I have alwaysbeen so keen for adventure. I am off to-morrow, Grannie; so I am outof the way. "

Grannie kissed the boy between his straight brows, looked into hisfearless, dancing, mischievous eyes, and said a word or two which henever forgot. She sent him off the next morning with the best wardrobeshe could muster, half a crown in his pocket, and her blessing ringingin his ears. 

"'Taint much; it's a rough life, but it's the best that could be done, "she said to Alison. "Ef he keeps straight he'll have good luck, forit's in the breed, " she continued; then she resumed her preparationsfor the little girls. 

They went away on Saturday, and Alison, David, and Grannie had Sundayto themselves. It was a sort of day which Alison could never talk ofafterward. It ought to have been very miserable, but it was not; therewas a peace about it which comforted the much-tried girl, and which sheoften hugged to her heart in some of the dark days which were close athand. 

"Now, chil'en, " said Grannie, on the evening of that day, "you two willplease go off early in the morning and leave me the last in the oldhouse. "

"But mayn't we see you as far as the railway station?" said Alison. 

"No, my love, I prefer not, " was the response. 

"But won't you tell us where you are going, Grannie?" said David. "Itseems so queer for us to lose sight of you. Don't you think it a bithard on us, old lady?"

Grannie looked very earnestly at David. 

"No, " she said, after a pause, "'taint hard, it's best. I am goin' ona wisit; ef it aint comfortable, and ef the Lord don't want me to stay, why I won't stay; but I'd rayther not speak o' it to-night. You mustlet me have my own way, Dave and Alison. We are all suited for, somein one way and some in t'other, but I'd rayther go away to-morrow withjest the bit of fun of keeping it all to myself, at least for a time. "

"Is it in the country, Grannie?" said Alison. 

"I'm told it's a fine big place, " replied Grannie. 

"And are they folks you ever knew?"

"They're friends o' Mr. Williams, " said Grannie, shutting up her lips. "Mr. Williams knows all about 'em. He says I can go to see you often;'taint far from town. You won't really be very far from me at all. But don't let us talk any more about it. When a woman comes to my timeo' life, ef she frets about herself she must be a mighty poor sort, andthat aint me. "

Monday morning dawned, and Grannie had her way. Alison and David bothkissed her, and went out into the world to face their new duties. Theywere not coming back any more to the little home. Grannie was alone. 

"I haven't a minute to waste, " she said to herself after they had gone, bustling about as she spoke. "There's all the furniture to be soldnow. The auctioneer round the corner said he would look in arter thechil'en were well out o' the way. Oh, I dare say I shall have heaps oftime to fret by and by, but I ain't agoin' to fret now; not I. There'll be a nice little nest-egg out of the furniture, which Mr. Williams can keep for Alison; and ef Alison gets on, why, 'twill do forburying me when my time comes. I think a sight of having a goodfuneral; the Lord knows I want to be buried decent, comin' of the breedI do; but there, I've no time to think of funerals or anything elsenow. I had to be masterful this week to 'em darlin's, but 'twas theonly thing to do. Lor' sakes! Suppose they'd begun fussing over me, what would have become of us all?"

At this moment there came a knock at the door. Grannie knew who itwas. It was the agent who came weekly, Monday after Monday, to collectthe rent. 

"Here's your rent, Mr. Johnson, " said Grannie, "and I hope you'll getanother tenant soon. It was a right comfortable little flat, and weall enjoyed ourselves here. We haven't a word to say agen ourlandlord, Mr. Johnson. "

"I am very sorry to lose you as a tenant, Mrs. Reed, " said Mr. Johnson, giving the bright-eyed little woman a puzzled glance. "If there isanything in my power----"

"No, there aint! No, there aint!" said Grannie, nodding. "We has madefresh arrangements in the fam'ly, and don't require the rooms anylonger. I'll have the furniture out by twelve o'clock to-day, sir, andthen the rooms will be washed out and tidied. A neighbor downstairshas promised to do it. Will you please tell me where I shall leave thekey?"

"You may leave it with Mrs. Murray on the next flat, " said Mr. Johnson. "Well, I am sorry to lose you as a tenant, Mrs. Reed, and if ever youdo want to settle down in a home again, please let me know, and I'll domy very best to provide you with a comfortable one. "

"I 'spect I won't have to pay no rent for my next home, " said Granniesoftly, under her breath, as she turned away from the door. "Oh, Lord, to think that you're gettin' a mansion in the sky ready for an old bodylike me, and no rent to pay neither! Dear Lord, to think it is gettingready for me now! I am about as happy an old woman as walks--that Iam. "

Grannie felt the religion which was part and parcel of her lifeextremely uplifting that morning. It tided her safely over an hour sodark that it might have broken a less stout heart. The auctioneer cameround and priced the furniture. Every bit of that furniture had ahistory. Part of it belonged to the Reeds, part to the Phippses, andpart to the Simpsons. It was full of the stories of many lives; but, as Grannie said to herself, "I'll have heaps of time by and by to fretabout the eight-day clock, and the little oak bureau under the window, and the plates, and cups, and dishes, and tables; I need not wasteprecious minutes over 'em now. "

So the auctioneer, who somehow could not cheat those blue eyes, offereda fair price for the little "bits o' duds, " and by twelve o'clock hesent round a cart and a couple of men to carry them away. The flat wasquite bare and empty before Grannie finally locked the hall door andtook the key down to Mrs. Murray. 

Mrs. Murray was very fond of Grannie, and was extremely inclined to beinquisitive; but if ever Mrs. Reed had been on her full dignity it wasthis morning. She spoke about the good luck of the children in havingfound such comfortable homes, said that household work was getting alittle too much for her, and that now she was going away on a visit. 

"To the country, ma'am?" said Mrs. Murray. "It is rather early for thecountry jest yet, aint it?"

"It is to a very nice part, suitable to the season, " replied Grannie, setting her lips firmly. "I'm always in luck, and I'm in my usual goodluck now in findin' kind friends willin' and glad to have me. I willwish you 'good-day' now, ma'am; I mustn't keep my friends waiting. "

"But won't you have a cup of tea afore you go, for you really lookquite shaky?" said Mrs. Murray, who noticed that Grannie's left handshook when she laid the key of the lost home on the table. 

"No, no, ma'am. I expect to have tea with my friends, " was the reply. "Thank you kindly, I am sure, Mrs. Murray, and I wish you well, ma'am. "

Mrs. Murray shook hands with Grannie and looked at her kindly andaffectionately as she tripped down the winding stairs for the last time. 

Grannie wore her black silk bonnet, and her snow-white kerchief, andher neat little black shawl, and her white cotton gloves. Hersnow-white hair was as fluffy as usual under the brim of her bonnet, and her eyes were even brighter, and her cheeks wore a deeper shade ofapple bloom about them. Perhaps some people, some keen observers, would have said that the light in the eyes and the bloom on the cheekswere too vivid for perfect health; but, as it was, people only remarkedas they saw her go down the street, "What a dear, pretty old lady!Now, _she_ belongs to some of the provident, respectable poor, if youlike. " People said things of that sort as Grannie got into the omnibuspresently, and drove away, and away, and away. They did not know, theycould not possibly guess, what Grannie herself knew well, that she wasonly a pauper on her way to the workhouse. For Mrs. Reed had kept hersecret, and the keeping of that secret was what saved her heart frombeing broken. Mr. Williams had used influence on her behalf, and hadgot her into the workhouse of a parish to which she had originallybelonged. It was in the outskirts of London, and was, he said, one ofthe best and least severe of the class. 

"Provided the children don't know, nothing else matters, " thoughtGrannie over and over, as she approached nearer and nearer to herdestination. "I am just determined to make the best of it, " she saidto herself, "and the children need never know. I shall be let out onvisits from time to time, and I must keep up the story that I amstaying with kind friends. I told Mr. Williams what I meant to do, andhe didn't say it were wrong. Lord, in thy mercy help me to keep thisdark from the children, and help me to remember, wherever I am, that Iwas born a Phipps and a Simpson. Coming of that breed, nothing oughtto daunt me, and I'll live and die showing the good stock I am of. "

The omnibus set Grannie down within a quarter of a mile of herdestination. She carried a few treasures tied up in a silkhandkerchief on her left arm, and presently reached the big gloomygates of the workhouse. Mr. Williams had made all the necessaryarrangements for her, and she was admitted at once. A male porter, dressed in hideous garb, conducted her across a courtyard to abare-looking office, where she was asked to sit down. After a fewminutes the matron appeared, accompanied by a stoutly built woman, whocalled herself the labor matron, and into whose care Grannie wasimmediately given. She was taken away to the bath-room first of all. There her own neat, pretty clothes were taken from her, and she wasgiven the workhouse print dress, the ugly apron, the hideous cap, andthe little three-cornered shawl to wear. 

"What's your age?" asked the matron. 

"Sixty-eight, ma'am, " replied Grannie. 

"Let me see; surely there is something wrong with that hand. "

"Yes, ma'am, " replied Grannie solemnly; "it is the hand that hasbrought me here. I was good at needlework in my day, ma'am, but 'twaswriting as did it. "

"Writing! did you write much?" asked the matron. 

"No, ma'am, only twice a year at the most, but even them two letterscost me sore; they brought on a disease in the hand; it is calledwriters' cramp. It is an awful complaint, and it has brought me here, ma'am. "

The labor matron looked very hard at Grannie. She did not understandher words, nor the expression on her brave face. Grannie by no meanswore the helpless air which characterizes most old women when they cometo the workhouse. 

"Well, " she said, after a pause, "hurry with your bath; you needn'thave another for a fortnight; but once a fortnight you must wash here. At your age, and with your hand so bad, you won't be expected to do anymanual work at all. "

"I'd rayther, ef you please, ma'am, " said Grannie. "I'm not accustomedto settin' idle. "

"Well, I don't see that you can do anything; that hand is quite pastall use, but perhaps the doctor will take a look at it to-morrow. Nowget through that bath, and I'll take you to the room where the otherold women are. "

"Good Lord, keep me from thinkin' o' the past, " said Grannie when thedoor closed behind her. 

She got through the bath and put on her workhouse dress, and felt, witha chill all through her little frame, that she had passed suddenly fromlife to death. The matron came presently to fetch her. 

"This way, please, " she said, in a tart voice. She had treated Granniewith just a shadow of respect as long as she wore her own nice anddainty clothes, but now that she was in the workhouse garb, she lookedlike any other bowed down little woman. She belonged, in short, to thefailures of life. She was hurried down one or two long passages, thenthrough a big room, empty at present, which the matron briefly told herwas the "Able-bodied Women's Ward, " and then into another very largeroom, where a bright fire burnt, and where several women, perhaps fiftyor sixty, were seated on benches, doing some light jobs of needlework, or pretending to read, or openly dozing away their time. They were alldressed just like Grannie, and took little or no notice when she camein. She was only one more failure, to join the failures in the room. These old women were all half dead, and another old woman was coming toshare their living grave. The matron said something hastily, and shutthe door behind her. Grannie looked round; an almost wild light lit upher blue eyes for a moment, then it died out, and she went softly andquietly across the room. 

"Ef you are cold, ma'am, perhaps you'll like to set by the fire, " saidan old body who must have been at least ten years Grannie's senior. 

"Thank you, ma'am, I'll be much obleeged, " said Grannie, and she satdown. 

Her bath had, through some neglect, not been properly heated; it hadchilled her, and all of a sudden she felt tired, old, and feeble, and along shiver ran down her back. She held out her left hand to theblaze. A few of the most active of the women approached slowly, andeither stood and looked at her, or sat down as near her as possible. She had very lately come from life; they were most of them accustomedto death. Their hearts were feebly stirred with a kind of diminterest, but the life such as Grannie knew was dull and far off tothem. 

"This is a poor sort of place, ma'am, " said one of them. 

Grannie roused herself with a great effort. 

"Ef I begin to grumble I am lost, " she said stoutly to herself. "Well, now, it seems to me a fine airy room, " she said. "It is all as itstrikes a body, o' course, " she added, very politely; "but the roomseems to me lofty. "

"You aint been here long, anybody can see that, " said an old woman ofthe name of Peters, with a sniff. "Wait till you live here day afterday, with nothin' to do, and nothin' to think of, and nothin' to hear, and nothin' to read, and, you may say, nothin' to eat. "

"Dear me, " said Grannie, "don't they give us our meals?"

"Ef you like to _call_ 'em such, " said Mrs. Peters, with a sniff. Andall the other women sniffed too. And when Mrs. Peters emphasized hercondemnation of the food with a groan, all the other old women groanedin concert. 

Grannie looked at them, and felt that she had crossed an impassablegulf. Never again could she be the Grannie she had been when she awokethat morning. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

It was bitterly cold weather when Grannie arrived at the workhouse. Not that the workhouse itself was really cold. Its sanitaryarrangements were as far as possible perfect; its heating arrangementswere also fairly good. Notwithstanding the other old women's groans, the food was passable and even nourishing, and beyond the fact thatthere was an absence of hope over everything, there were no realhardships in the great Beverley workhouse. There were a good many oldwomen in this workhouse--in fact, two large wards full--and these wereperhaps the most melancholy parts of the establishment. They slept onclean little narrow beds in a huge ward upstairs. There was apartition about eight feet high down the middle of this room. Bedsstood in rows, back to back, at each side of this partition; beds stoodin rows along the walls; there were narrow passages between the longrows of beds. The room was lighted with many windows high up in thewalls, and there was a huge fireplace at either end. By a curiousarrangement, which could scarcely be considered indulgent, the fires invery cold weather were lit at nine o'clock in the morning, after thepaupers had gone downstairs, and put out again at five in theafternoon. Why the old creatures might not have had the comfort of thefires when they were in their ward, it was difficult to say, but suchwas the rule of the place. 

Grannie's bed was just under one of the windows, and when she wentupstairs the first night, the chill, of which she had complained eversince she had taken her bath, kept her awake during the greater part ofthe hours of darkness. There were plenty of blankets on her littlebed, but they did not seem to warm her. The fact is, there was a greatchill at her heart itself. Her vitality was suddenly lowered; she wasafraid of the long dreary future; afraid of all those hopeless oldwomen; afraid of the severe cleanliness, the life hedged in withinnumerable rules, the dinginess of the new existence. Her faithburned dim; her trust in God himself was even a little shaken. Shewondered why such a severe punishment was sent to her; why she, whowrote so little, should get a disease brought on by writing. It seemedall incomprehensible, unfathomable, too dark for any ordinary words, orany ordinary consolation to reach. 

For the first time in her life she forgot her grandchildren, and theinvariable good luck of the family, and thought mostly about herself. Toward morning she fell into a troubled doze, but she had scarcelyseemed to drop asleep before a great bell sounded, which summoned herto rise. It was just six o'clock, and, at this time of the year, pitchdark. The long ward was now bitterly cold, and Grannie shivered as shegot into her ugly workhouse dress. The other old women rose from theirhard beds with many "ughs" and groans, and undercurrents of grumbling. Grannie was much too proud to complain. They were all dressed byfive-and-twenty past six, and then they went downstairs in melancholyprocession, and entered the dining-hall, where their breakfast, consisting of tea, bread and margarine, was served to them. Whenbreakfast was over they went upstairs to the ground floor, and Granniefound herself again in the ward into which she had been introduced thenight before. 

The women who could work got out their needlework, and began to performtheir allotted tasks in a very perfunctory manner. Grannie's fingersquite longed and ached for something to do. She was sent for presentlyto see the doctor, who examined her hand, said it would never be of anyuse again, ordered a simple liniment, and dismissed her. As Granniewas returning from this visit, she met the labor matron in one of thecorridors. 

"I wish you would give me something to do, " she said suddenly. 

"Well, what can you do?" asked the matron. "Has the doctor seen yourhand?"

"Yes. "

"And what does he say to it?"

"He says it will never be any better. "

"Never be any better!" The labor matron fixed Grannie with two ratherindignant eyes. "And what are you wasting my time for, asking forwork, when you know you can't do it?"

"Oh, yes; I think I can, ma'am--that is, with the left hand. I cannotdo needlework, perhaps, but I could dust and tidy, and even polish abit. I have always been very industrious, ma'am, and it goes sore agenthe grain to do nothin'. "

"Industrious indeed!" muttered the matron. "If you had beenindustrious and careful, you wouldn't have found your way here. No, there is no work for you, as far as I can see. Some of the able-bodiedwomen do out the old women's ward; it would never do to trust it to anincapable like yourself. There, I can't waste any more time with you. "

The matron hurried away, and Grannie went back to her seat by the fire, in the company of the other old women. They were curious to know whatthe doctor had said to her, and when she told them they shook theirheads and groaned, and said they all knew that would be the case. 

"No one _h_advanced in life gets better here, " said Mrs. Peters; "andyou are _h_advanced in life, aint you, ma'am?"

"Not so very, " replied Grannie indignantly. She felt quite youngbeside most of the other old paupers. 

"Well now, I calc'late you're close on eighty, " said Mrs. Peters. 

"Indeed, you are mistook, " replied Grannie. "I aint seventy yet. I'mjest at the age when it is no expense at all to live, so to speak. Iwere sixty-eight last November, and no one can call that old. At leastnot to say very old. "

"You look seventy-eight at the very least, " said most of the women. They nodded and gave Grannie some solemn, queer glances. They all sawa change in her which she did not know anything about herself. She hadaged quite ten years since yesterday. 

The one variety in the old women's lives was their meals. Dinner cameat half-past twelve, and supper at six. All the huge old family wentup to bed sharp at eight. There could not possibly be a more drearylife than theirs. As the days passed on, Grannie recovered from herfirst sense of chill and misery, and a certain portion of her bravespirit returned. It was one of the rules of the workhouse that thepauper women of over sixty might go out every Sunday from half-pasttwelve to six. They might also go out for the same number of hours onThursday. Those who were in sufficiently good health always availedthemselves of this outing, and Grannie herself looked forward quiteeagerly to Sunday. She scarcely slept on Saturday night for thinkingof this time of freedom. She had obtained permission to wear her ownneat dress, and she put it on with untold pride and satisfaction onthis Sunday morning. Once again some of the spirit of the Simpsons andPhippses came into her. She left the workhouse quite gayly. 

"I feel young again, " she murmured to herself as she heard the uglygates clang behind her. 

She walked down the road briskly, took an omnibus, and by and by foundherself at Bayswater. She had asked Alison to wait in for her, tellingthe girl that she might be able to pay her a little visit on Sunday. When she rang, therefore, the servants' bell at Mrs. Faulkner'sbeautiful house, Alison herself opened the door. 

Alison looked handsomer than ever in her neat lady's-maid costume. 

"Oh, Grannie, " she exclaimed. "It is good for sore eyes to see you. Come in, come in. You can't think how kind Mrs. Faulkner is. She saysI'm to have you all to myself, and you are to stay to dinner, and Davidis here; and the housekeeper (I have been telling the housekeeper a lotabout you, Grannie) has given us her little parlor to dine in, and Mrs. Faulkner is out for the day. Oh, we'll have quite a good time. Comedownstairs at once, dear Grannie, for dinner is waiting. "

"Well, child, I am pleased to see you so spry, " said Grannie. Hervoice felt quite choking when she entered the big, luxurious house. "I'll be able to keep it up fine, " she murmured to herself. "Lor', I'ma sight better; it was the air of that place that was a-killin' me. I'll keep it up afore the chil'en, and ef I can manage to do that, whybless the Lord for all his mercies. "

David was waiting in the housekeeper's room when Grannie gotdownstairs. Grannie had never known before what a power of comfortthere was in David's strong young step, and the feel of his firmmuscular arms, and the sensation of his manly kiss on her cheek. 

"Aye, Dave, " she said, "I'm a sight better for seeing you, my lad. "

"And I for seeing you, " replied the boy. "We have missed Grannie, haven't we, Ally?"

"Don't talk of it, " said Alison, tears springing to her blue eyes. 

"Well, we're all together again now, " said Grannie. "Bless the Lord!Set down each side of me, my darlin's, and tell me everything. Oh, Ihave hungered to know, I have hungered to know. "

"Mine is a very good place, " said Alison. "Mrs. Faulkner is most kind. "

"And ef it weren't for thinking of you, Grannie, and missing you, " saidDavid, "why, I'd be as happy as the day is long. "

"But tell us about yourself, dear Grannie, " said Alison. "How do youlike the country, and are Mr. Williams' friends good to you?"

"Real good! that they are, " said Grannie. "Why, it's a beautiful bigplace. "

"They are not poor folks, then?" said David. 

"Poor!" said Grannie. "I don't go for to deny that there are some poorpeople there, but they as owns the place aint poor. Lor' bless yer, it's a fine place. Don't you fret for me, my dearies. I'm wellprovided for, whoever aint. "

"But how long are you to stay?" said David. "You can't always be on avisit with folks, even if they are the friends of Mr. Williams. "

"Of course I can't stay always, " said Grannie, "but Mr. Williams hasarranged that I am to stay for a good two or three months at least, andby then, why, we don't know what 'll turn out. Now, chil'en, for theLord's sake don't let us waste time over an old body like me. Didn't Itell you that I have come to the time o' life when I aint much 'count?Let's talk of you, my dearies, let's talk of you. "

"Let's talk of dinner first, " said David. "I'm mighty hungry, whoeveraint. "

The dinner served in Mrs. Faulkner's housekeeper's room was remarkablynourishing and dainty, and Grannie enjoyed the food, which was notworkhouse food, with a zest which surprised herself. She thought thatshe had completely thrown her grandchildren off the scent, and if thatwere the case, nothing else mattered. When dinner was over the sunshone out brightly, and Alison and David took Grannie out for a walk. They went into Kensington Gardens, which were looking very bright andpretty. Then they came home, and Grannie had a cup of tea, after whichshe rose resolutely and said it was time for her to go. 

"I will see you back, " said David, in a determined voice. "I havenothing else to do. I don't suppose those friends of Mr. Williams whoare so good to you would mind me coming as far as the door. "

"Yes, they would, " said Grannie, "they wouldn't like it a bit. "

"Now, Grannie, that's all nonsense, you know, " said the young man. 

"No it aint, my lad, no it aint. You've just got to obey me, David, inthis matter. I know what I know, and I won't be gainsaid. "

Grannie had suddenly put on her commanding air. 

"I am on a visit with right decent folks--people well-to-do in theworld, wot keep up everything in fine style--and ef they have fadsabout relations comin' round their visitors, why shouldn't they?Anyhow, I am bound to respect 'em. You can't go home with me, Dave, but you shall see me to the 'bus, ef you like. "

"Well, " said Dave, a suspicious, troubled look creeping up into hisface, "that's all very fine, but I wish you wouldn't make a mystery ofwhere you are staying, dear Grannie. "

"I don't want to, " said Grannie. "It's all Mr. Williams. He has beenreal kind to me and mine, and ef he wants to keep to himself what hisfriends are doing for me, why shouldn't I obleege him?"

"Why not, indeed?" said Alison. "But are you sure you are reallycomfortable, Grannie?"

"And why shouldn't I be comfortable, child? I don't lookuncomfortable, do I?"

"No, not really, but somehow----"

"Yes, I know what you mean, " interrupted David. 

"Somehow, " said Alison, "you look changed. "

"Oh, and ef I do look a bit changed, " said the old woman, "it's causeI'm a-frettin' for you. Of course I miss you all, but I'll getaccustomed to it; and it's a beautiful big place, and I'm in rare luckto have got a 'ome there. Now I must hurry off. God bless you, mydear!"

Alison stood on the steps of Mrs. Faulkner's house, and watched Grannieas she walked down the street. The weather had changed, and it was nowbitterly cold; sleet was falling, and there was a high wind. ButGrannie was leaning on Dave's arm, and she got along bravely. 

"I don't like it, " said Alison to herself, as she went into the house. "Grannie's hiding something; I can't think what it is. Oh, dear, ohdear, how I wish Jim had been true to me. If he only had, we wouldhave made a home for Grannie somehow. Grannie is hiding something. What can it be?"

Meanwhile David saw Grannie to the omnibus, where he bade her anaffectionate "good-by. " She arranged to come again to see hergrandchildren on the following Sunday if all was well. 

"But ef I don't come, don't you fret, Dave, boy, " was her last word tothe lad. "Ef by chance I don't come, you'll know it's because it aintquite convenient in the family I'm staying with. Now, good-by, Dave. Bless you, lad. "

The omnibus rolled away, and Grannie snuggled back into her corner. Her visit to her grandchildren had cheered her much, and she thoughtthat she could very well get through a dreary week in the workhousewith that beacon post of Sunday on ahead. She would not for the worldtrouble the children on work-a-day Thursday, but on Sunday she might asa rule get a sight of them. 

"And they suspect nothin', thank the good Lord!" she said, hugging hersecret to her breast. 

She left the omnibus at the same corner where she had left it on theprevious Monday. 

The weather meanwhile had been changing for the worse; snow was nowfalling thickly, and the old woman had no umbrella. She staggeredalong, beaten and battered by the great tempest of wind and snow. Atfirst she stepped on bravely enough, but by and by her steps grewfeeble. The snow blinded her eyes and took away her breath, ittrickled in little pools down into her neck, and seemed to find out allthe weak parts of her dress. Her thin black shawl was covered withsnow; her bonnet was no longer black, but white. Her heart began tobeat at first too loudly, then feebly; she tottered forward, stumblingas one in a dream. She was cold, chilled through and through;bitterly, bitterly cold. Suddenly, without knowing it, she put herfoot on a piece of orange-peel; she slipped, and the next moment layprone in the soft snow. Her fall took away her last remnant ofstrength; try as she would, she found she could not rise. She raisedher voice to call for assistance, and presently a stout laboring mancame up and bent over the little prostrate woman. 

"Let me help you to get up, ma'am, " he said politely. 

He caught hold of her swollen right hand. The sudden pain forced asharp scream from her lips. 

"Not that hand, please, sir; the other, " she said. She put out herleft hand. 

"Nay, I'll lift you altogether, " he said. "Why, you are no weight atall. Are you badly hurt, ma'am?"

"No, no, it's nothin', " said Grannie, panting, and breathing withdifficulty. 

"And where shall I take you to? You can't walk--you are not to attemptit. Is your home anywhere near here, ma'am?"

In spite of all her pain and weakness, a flush of shame came into theold cheeks. 

"It is nigh here, very nigh, " said Grannie, "but it aint my home; it'sBeverley workhouse, please, sir. "

"All right, " said the man. He did not notice Grannie's shame. 

The next moment he had pulled the bell at the dreary gates, and Granniewas taken in. She was conveyed straight up to the infirmary. 

CHAPTER XV. 

It wanted but a week to Jim Hardy's wedding day. Preparations were infull swing, and the Clays' house was, so to speak, turned topsy-turvy. Jim was considered a most lucky man. He was to get five hundred poundswith his bride. With that five hundred pounds Louisa proposed that Jimshould set up in business for himself. He and she would own a smallhaberdasher's shop. They could stock it well, and even put by anest-egg for future emergencies. Jim consented to all her proposals. He felt depressed and unlike himself. In short, there never was a moreunwilling bridegroom. He had never loved Louisa. She had always beenrepugnant to him. In a moment of pique he had asked her to marry him, and his repentance began half an hour after his engagement. Still hemanaged to play his part sufficiently well. Louisa, whose passion forhim increased as the days went on, made no complaint; she was true toher promise, and never mentioned Alison's name, and the wedding daydrew on apace. The young people's banns had already been called twicein the neighboring church, the next Sunday would be the third time, andthe following Thursday was fixed for the wedding. Jim came home lateone evening tired out, and feeling more depressed than usual. A letterwas waiting for him on the mantelpiece. He had already given notice toquit his comfortable bedroom. He and Louisa were to live for atime--until they had chosen their shop and furnished it--with theClays. This arrangement was very disagreeable to Jim, but it did notoccur to him to demur; his whole mind was in such a state of collapsethat he allowed Louisa and her people to make what arrangements theypleased. 

"There's a letter for you upstairs, " said his landlady, as he hurriedpast her. 

The young man's heart beat fast for a moment. Could Alison by anychance have written to him? He struck a light hastily and looked atthe letter, which was lying on his table. No, the handwriting was notAlison's, and when he opened it the first thing he saw was a check, which fell out. 

"My Dear Nephew [ran the letter], I hope this finds you well, as itleaves me. You must be a well-grown lad now, and, in short, have cometo full man's estate. I have done well in Australia, and if you liketo join me here, I believe I can put you in the way of earning a goodliving. I inclose a draft on the City Bank, London, for one hundredpounds, which will pay your passage and something over. If you like tocome, you will find me at the address at the head of this paper. I ammaking lots of money, and if you have a head on your shoulders, you canhelp me fine in my business. If you don't care to come, you may usethe money to start housekeeping when you marry; but if you are wise youwill take my advice. 

 "Your affectionate uncle, "JAMES HARDY. "

Jim fingered the check, and looked absently before him. 

"Why shouldn't I get clear out of the whole business?" he said. "Icould leave the country to-morrow with this money, and go out and joinUncle James, and make my fortune by and by. Why should I stick toLouisa when I hate her? It's all over with Alison and me. Oh, Alison, how could you love another fellow when I loved you so well, and was sotrue to you? I can't understand it--no, I can't. I don't believe fora moment that she was telling me the truth the other day--why, there isno other fellow. I have made inquiries and I can't hear of anyone. Itisn't as if hundreds wouldn't want her, but she is keeping company withno one. I believe it was an excuse she made; there's a mystery at thebottom of it. Something put her out, and she was too proud to let mesee what it was. And, oh dear, why was I so mad as to propose marriageto a girl like Louisa Clay? Yes; why shouldn't I get quit of the thingto-night? I have the money now. I can take Uncle James's adviceto-night; why shouldn't I do it?"

Jim stood straight up as these thoughts came to him. He slipped theforeign letter into his pocket, walked with a long stride to thewindow, flung the sash open, and looked out into the night. 

"I can't do it, " he muttered; "it isn't in me to be an out-and-outscoundrel. She is not the girl I want, but I have promised her, and Imust stick to it; all the same, I am a ruined man. Oh, if Alison hadonly been true to me. "

"Now, old chap, what are you grumbling to yourself for?" said a voicejust behind him. 

He turned abruptly and met the keen-eyed, ferret-looking face of thedetective Sampson. Sampson and Jim had not been very friendly lately, and Jim wondered now in a vague sort of way why his quondam friend hadtroubled himself to visit him. 

"Sit down, won't you?" he said abruptly. "There's a chair. "

"I'll shut the door first, " said Sampson. "I have got a thing or twoto say to you, and you may as well hear me out. You aint behavedstraight to me, Jim; you did a shabby thing behind my back; but, Lor'bless you, ef it's saved me from a gel like Louisa Clay, why, I'll beobleeged to you to the end of my days. Look here, I was very nearcommitting myself with that girl. 'Twasn't that I loved her, but Idon't go for to deny that she was good-looking, and she certainly didtickle my fancy considerable, and then when I thought of the tidy bitof silver that she would have from her father, I made up my mind thatshe would be a good enough match for me; but mind you, I never thoughther straight--I never yet was mistook in any character I ever studiedcarefully. I couldn't follow out my calling if I did, Jim, old chap;and that you know well. "

"I don't suppose you could, George, " said Jim; "but I think it onlyfair to tell you before you go a step further, that I am engaged toLouisa, and I can't hear her run down by anyone now. So you may aswell know that first as last. "

"Engaged or not, " said Sampson, with curious emphasis, "you have got tohear a thing or two about Louisa Clay to-night. "

"If it is bad, I won't hear it, " said Jim, clenching his big hand. 

"Then you are a greater fool than I took you for; but, look here, you've got to listen, for it concerns that other girl, the girl youused to be so mad on, Alison Reed. "

Jim's hands slowly unclenched. He turned round and fixed his greatdark eyes with a kind of hungry passion in them on Sampson's face. 

"If it has anything to do with Alison I am bound to hear it, " he said. 

"Then you love her still?" said Sampson, in surprise. 

"Love her!" replied Jim; "aye, lad, that I do. I am near mad abouther. "

"And yet you are going to marry Louisa Clay. "

"So it seems, George, so it seems; but what's the good of talking aboutwhat can't be cured? Alison has thrown me over, and I am promised toLouisa, and there's an end of it. "

"Seems to me much more like that you have thrown Alison over, " saidSampson. "Why, I was in the room that night of the play-acting, and Isaw Alison Reed just by the stairs, looking as beautiful as a picter, and you come up with that other loud, noisy gel, and you talked to herwerry affectionate, I must say. I heard what she said to you--thatthere wasn't a thing in heaven above, or in earth beneath, she wouldn'tdo for you. Maybe Alison heard them words too; there's no saying. Iwas so mad at what I thought Louisa's falsehood to me, that I cut thewhole concern fast enough. Well, that's not what I have come to talkon to-night; it is this: I think I have traced the theft of thatfive-pound note straight home at last. "

"You haven't?" said Jim. "Oh, but that's good news indeed; and Alisonis cleared?"

"She is; but I don't see how it is good news to you, for the theft isbrought home to the gel what is to be your wife in less than a week. "

"Nonsense!" said Hardy. "I always said you were too sharp on Louisa. She aint altogether to my taste, I am bound to confess, although I havepromised her marriage; but she's not a thief. Come, now, you cannotget me to believe she's as bad as that. "

"You listen to me, Hardy, and stay quiet, " said Sampson. "I can putwhat I know in a few words, and I will. From the very first Isuspected Louisa Clay. She was jealous of Alison, and had a motive fortryin' to do her a bad turn. She was over head and ears in love withyou, as all the world could see. That, when I saw her first, I willown, I began to think as she'd be a good mate for myself, and it comeover me that I wouldn't push the inquiry any further. It might be wellto know a secret about your wife, to hold over her in case she provedtroublesome by'm-by. I am not a feller with any high notions, asperhaps you have guessed--anyhow, I let the thing drop, and I went infor Louisa for the sake of her money. When she threw me over so sharp, you may suppose that my feelings underwent a head-to-tail sort ofmotion, and I picked up the clew pretty fast again, and worked on ituntil I got a good thread in my hand. I needn't go into particularshere about all I did and all I didn't do, but I managed first of all topick up with Shaw, your master. I met him out one evening, and I toldhim that I knew you, and that you were in an awful taking because yourgel, Alison Reed, was thought to have stolen a five-pound note. Hetalked a bit about the theft, and then I asked him if he had the numberof the note. He clapped his hand on his thigh, and said what a fool hewas, but he had never thought of the number until that moment. He hadlooked at it when he put the note in the till as he supposed, and bygood luck he remembered it. He said off to me what he believed it was, and I entered it in my notebook. 

"'I have you now, my fine lady, ' I said to myself, and I went off anddid a little bit of visiting in the smartest shops round, and by and byI heard further tidings of the note. It had been changed, two daysafter it had been stolen, by a young woman answering to Louisa Clay inall particulars. When things had come as far as that, I said tomyself----

"'Ef there is a case for bluff, this is one. I'll just go and wringthe truth from Louisa before she is an hour older. '

"So I went to see her only this morning. I blarneyed her a bitfirst--you know my style--and then I twitted her for being false to me, and then I got up a sort of pretense quarrel, and I worked on herfeelings until she got into a rage, and when she was all hot andpeppery, I faced right round on her, and charged her with the theft. 

"'You stole that five-pound note from the till in Shaw's shop, ' I said, 'and you let Alison Reed be charged with it. I know you stole it, soyou needn't deny it. The number of the note was, one, one, one, seven. I have it written here in my note-book. I traced the note to Dawson's, round the corner, and they can swear, if necessary, in a court ofjustice, that you gave it to them in exchange for some yards of blacksilk. By the way, I believe that is the very identical silk you haveon you this minute. Oh, fie, Louisa! you are a bad 'un. '

"She turned white as one of them egg-shell china cups, and she put herhands before her eyes, and her hands shook. And after a bit she said:

"'Oh, George, don't have me locked up, and I'll tell you everything. "

"'Well, you'll have to put it in writing, ' I said, 'or I won't have acrumb of mercy on you. '

"So I got the story out of her, Jim. It seems the note had never beendropped into the till at all, but had fallen on the floor just by themanager's desk, and Louisa had seen it and picked it up, and sheconfessed to hoping that Alison would be charged with it. Here's herconfession in this envelope, signed and witnessed and all. So now, youcan marry her come Thursday ef you like. "

Sampson got up and stretched himself as he spoke. 

Jim's face, which had turned from red to white, and from white again tocrimson, during this brief narrative, was now stern and dark. 

"I am obliged to you, Sampson, " he said, after a pause. 

"What will you do?" asked the detective, with some curiosity. "I seethis is a bit of a blow, and I am not surprised; but what will you do?"

"I can't tell. I must think things over. Do you say you have theconfession in your pocket?"

"Yes; in my breast pocket. Here is the envelope sticking out above mycoat. "

"Give it to me, " said Jim, stretching out his big hand. 

"Not I. That's my affair. I can make use of this. Why, I could holda thing of this sort over the head of your fair bride, and blackmailher, if necessary. "

"No, no, Sampson; you are not a ruffian, of that sort. "

George Sampson suddenly changed his manner. 

"As far as you are concerned, Jim, I am no ruffian, " he said. "To tellthe plain truth, I have always liked yer, and I'll act by you asstraight as a die in this matter. If you never do anything else, you've saved me from being the husband of that gel, and I'll bethankful to you for it to my dying day. But for the Lord's sake, don'tyou put yourself into the noose now. You can't be so mad, surely. "

"Leave me for to-night, Sampson, " said Jim in a voice of entreaty. "Ican't say anything, I must think. Leave me for to-night. "

The detective got up slowly, whistled in a significant manner, and leftthe room. 

"Now, if Jim Hardy is quixotic enough to marry Louisa Clay after what Ihave said, I'll never speak to a good man again as long as I live, " hemuttered. 

But Jim Hardy had not made up his mind how to act at all; he was simplystunned. When he found himself alone he sank down on a chair close tohis little center table, put his elbows on the table, and buried hishead in his big hands. The whole bewildering truth was too much forhim. He was honest and straight himself, and could not understandduplicity. Louisa's conduct was incomprehensible to him. What shouldhe do now? Should he be true to one so false? This question begandimly to struggle to obtain an answer in his mind. He had scarcelybegun to face it, when a knock at the door, and the shrill voice of hislandlady calling out, "I have got a letter for you, Mr. Hardy, you arein favor with the post to-night, " reached him. 

He walked across the room, opened the door, and took the letter fromthe landlady's hand. She gave him a quick, curious glance; she sawshrewdly enough that something was worrying him. 

"Why do he go and marry a girl like that Clay creature?" she mutteredto herself as she whisked downstairs. "I wouldn't have her if she haddouble the money they say he's to get with her. "

Jim meanwhile stared hard at the writing on his letter. It was inLouisa Clay's straggling, badly formed hand. He hastily tore open theenvelope, and read the brief contents. They ran as follows:

"DEAR JIM, --I dare say you have heard something about me, and I don'tgo for to deny that that something is true. I was mad when I did it, but, mad or sane, it is best now that all should be over between youand me. I couldn't bear to marry you, and you knowing the truth. Thenyou never loved me--any fool could see that. So I am off out ofLondon, and you needn't expect to see me any more. 

 "Yours no longer, "LOUISA CLAY. "

Jim's first impulse when he had read this extraordinary and unexpectedletter was to dance a hornpipe from one end of the room to the other;his next was to cry hip, hip, hurrah in a stentorian voice. His lastimpulse he acted upon. He caught up his hat and went out as fast asever he could. With rapid strides he hurried through the crowdedstreets, reached the Bank, and presently found himself on the top of anomnibus which was to convey him to Bayswater. He was following hisimpulse with a beating heart, eyes that blazed with light, and lipsthat trembled with emotion. He had been a prisoner tied fast in chainsof his own forging. All of a sudden he was free. Impulse should haveits way. His heart should dictate to him in very earnest at last. With Louisa's letter and his uncle's letter in his pocket, he presentlyreached the great house where Mrs. Faulkner lived. He had often passedthat house since Alison had gone to it, walking hungrily past it atdead of night, thinking of the girl whom he loved but might never win;now he might win his true love after all--he meant to try. Histriumphant steps were heard hurrying down the pavement. He pulled theservants' bell and asked boldly for Alison. 

"Who shall I say?" asked the kitchen-maid who admitted him. 

"Say Jim Hardy, and that my message is urgent, " was the reply. 

The girl, who was impressed by Jim's goodly height and breadth, invitedhim into the housekeeper's parlor, where Alison joined him in a fewminutes. Her face was like death when she came in; her hand shook sothat she could scarcely hold it out for Jim to clasp. He was master, however, on this occasion--the averted eyes, the white face, theshaking hand were only all the more reasons why he should clasp themaiden he loved to his heart. He strode across the room and shut thedoor. 

"Can we be alone for a few minutes?" he said. 

"I suppose so, Jim, if--if it is necessary, " said Alison. 

"It is necessary. I have something to say. "

Alison did not reply. She was trembling more than ever. 

"I have got to say this, " said Jim: "I am off with Louisa Clay. We'renot going to be married. I don't want her, I never wanted her, and nowit seems that she don't want me. And, Alison, you are cleared of thatmatter of the five-pound note. "

"Cleared?" said Alison, springing forward, and her eyes lighting up. 

"Yes, darlin', cleared, " said Jim boldly. "I always knew you were asinnocent as the dawn, and now all the world will know it. Sampson, good fellow, ferreted out the truth, and it seems--it seems that Louisais the thief. Sampson can give you all particulars himself to-morrow;but I have come here now to talk on a matter of much more importance. I have always loved you, Alison, from the first day I set eyes on you. From that first moment I gave you all my heart; my life was yours, myhappiness yours, and all the love I am capable of. In an evil hour ashadow came atween us; I was mad at losing you, and I asked Louisa towed me; but though I'd 'a' been true to her--for a promise is apromise--I'd have been the most miserable man what ever lived, for myheart would have been yours. I'd have committed a sin, an awful sin, but, thank God, I am saved from that now. Louisa herself has set mefree. There's her letter; you can read it if you want to. "

Jim pulled it out of his pocket, and thrust it before Alison's dazzledeyes. 

"No, no!" she said, pushing it from her; "your word is enough. I don'twant to see the letter. "

She hid her face in her shaking hands. 

"I was always true to you, " continued Jim, "in heart at least; and nowI want to know if there is any reason why you and me should not be wedafter all. I have got money enough, and I can wed you and give you anice home as soon as ever the banns are read, and there'll be a cornerfor Grannie too, by our fireside. Come, Alison, is there any reason, any impediment? as they say in the marriage service. There aint reallyany other feller, is there, Ally? That was a sort of way to cheat me, Ally; wasn't it, darlin'?"

"Oh, Jim, yes, yes, " cried Alison. "I always loved you with all myheart. I loved you more than ever the day I gave you up, but I wasproud, and I misunderstood, and--and--oh, I can say no more; but I loveyou, Jim, I love you. Oh, my heart is like to burst, but it is allhappiness now, for I love you so well--so true--so very, very dearly. "

"Then that's all right, " he answered solemnly. He took her into hisarms there and then and held her fast to his beating heart. Theykissed each other many times. 

Alison and Jim were married, and Grannie went to live with them. Shewas indispensable to the brightness of their home, and even moreindispensable to the success of their little shop; for Grannie had anatural turn for business, and if her eyes were the kindest in all theworld, they were also the sharpest to detect the least thing notperfectly straight in those with whom she had to deal. So the shop, started on thoroughly business principles, flourished well. And theyoung pair were happy, and the other children by and by made a goodstart in the world, and Grannie's face beamed more and more lovingly asthe years went on, but never to her dying day did she reveal the secretof her visit to the workhouse. 

"It was the one piece of bad luck in all my happy life, " she was wontto murmur to herself, then she would smile and perk up her littlefigure. "Lord knows, I needn't ha' been frighted, " she would add;"comin' o' the breed of the Phippses and Simpsons, I might ha' known itwouldn't last--the luck o' the family bein' wot it is. "

THE END

THE FLOWERS' WORK

"See, mother! I've finished my bouquet. Isn't it beautiful? More so, I think, than those made by the florist which he asked two dollars for, and this has cost me but seventy-five cents. "

"Yes, yes, it is very pretty. But, dear me, child, I cannot helpthinking how illy we can spare so much for such a very useless thing. Almost as much as you can make in a day it has cost. "

"Don't say _useless_, mother. It will express to Edward ourappreciation of his exertions and their result, and our regards. Howhe has struggled to obtain a profession! I only wish I could cover theplatform with bouquets, baskets and wreaths tonight, when he receiveshis diploma. "

"Well, well; if it will do any good, I shall not mind the expense. But, child, he will know it is from you, and men don't care for suchthings coming from home folks. Now, if it was from any other younglady, I expect he'd be mightily pleased. "

"Oh, mother, I don't think so. Edward will think as much of it, comingfrom his sister-in-law, as from any other girl. And it will pleaseKate, too. If _we_ do not think enough of him to send him bouquets, who else could? Rest easy, mother, dear; I feel quite sure my bouquetwill do much good, " answered Annie, putting her bouquet in a glass ofwater. 

She left the room to make her simple toilet for the evening. 

Mrs. Grey had been widowed when her two little girls were in theirinfancy. It had been a hard struggle for the mother to raise herchildren. Constant toil, privation and anxiety had worn heavily on hernaturally delicate constitution, until she had become a confirmedinvalid. But there was no longer a necessity for her toiling. Katy, the elder daughter, was married; and Annie, a loving, devoted girl, could now return the mother's long and loving care. By her needle sheobtained a support for herself and mother. 

Katy's husband held a position under the government, receiving a smallcompensation, only sufficient for the necessities of the present, andof very uncertain continuance. He was ambitious of doing better thanthis for himself, as well as his family. So he employed every sparehour in studying medicine, and it was the night that he was to receivehis diploma that my little story begins. 

The exercises of the evening were concluded. Edward Roberts came downthe aisle to where his wife and Annie were seated, bearing hisflowers--an elegant basket, tastefully arranged, and a beautifulbouquet. But it needed only a quick glance for Annie to see it was not_her_ bouquet. Although the flowers were fragrant and rare, they werenot so carefully selected or well chosen. Hers expressed not alone heraffection and appreciation, but _his_ energy, perseverance and success. 

"Why, where is my bouquet? I do not see it, " asked Annie, a look ofdisappointment on her usually bright face. 

"Yours? I do not know. Did you send me one?" returned herbrother-in-law. 

"Indeed I did. And such a beauty, too! It is too bad! I suppose itis the result of the stupidity of the young man in whose hands I placedit. I told him plain enough it was for you, and your name, with mine, was on the card, " answered Annie, really very much provoked. 

"Well, do not fret, little sister; I am just as much obliged; andperchance some poor fellow not so fortunate as I may have received it, "answered Edward Roberts. 

"Don't, for pity's sake, let mother know of the mistake, or whatever itis, that has robbed you of your bouquet. She will fret dreadfullyabout it, " said Annie. 

All that night, until she was lost in sleep, did she constantly repeat:

"I wonder who has got it?"

She had failed to observe on the list of graduates the name of _EdgarRoberts_, from Ohio, or she might have had an idea into whose hands herbouquet had fallen. Her brother Edward, immediately on hearing Annie'sexclamation, thought how the mistake had occurred, and was really gladthat it was as it was; for the young man whose name was so nearly likehis own was a stranger in the city, and Edward had noticed hisreceiving _one_ bouquet only, which of course was the missing one, andAnnie's. 

Edgar Roberts sat in his room that night, after his return from thedistribution of diplomas, holding in his hand Annie's bouquet, and onthe table beside him was a floral dictionary. An expression ofgratification was on his pleasant face, and, as again and again hiseyes turned from the flowers to seek their interpreter, his lips werewreathed with smiles, and he murmured low:

"Annie Grey! Sweet Annie Grey! I never dreamed of any one in thisplace knowing or caring enough for me to send such a tribute. Howcarefully these flowers are chosen! What a charming, appreciativelittle girl she is! Pretty, I know, of course. I wonder how she cameto send me this? How shall I find her? Find her I must, and know her. "

And Edgar Roberts fell asleep to dream of Annie Grey, and awoke in themorning whispering the last words of the night before:

"Sweet Annie Grey!"

During the day he found it quite impossible to fix his mind on hiswork; mind and heart were both occupied with thoughts of Annie Grey. And so it continued to be until Edgar Roberts was really in love with agirl he knew not, nor had ever seen. To find her was his fixeddetermination. But how delicately he must go about it. He could notmake inquiry among his gentlemen acquaintances without speculationsarising, and a name sacred to him then, passed from one to another, lightly spoken, perhaps. Then he bethought himself of the citydirectory; he would consult that. And so doing he found Greysinnumerable--some in elegant, spacious dwellings, some in the businessthoroughfares of the place. The young ladies of the first mentioned, he thought, living in fashionable life, surrounded by many admirers, would scarcely think of bestowing any token of regard or appreciationon a poor unknown student. The next would have but little time todevote to such things; and time and thought were both spent in thearrangement of his bouquet. Among the long list of Greys he found onethat attracted him more than all the others--a widow, living in a quietpart of the city, quite near his daily route. So he sought and foundthe place and exact number. Fortune favored him. Standing at the doorof a neat little frame cottage he beheld a young girl talking with twolittle children. She was not the blue-eyed, golden-haired girl of hisdreams, but a sweet, earnest dove-eyed darling. And what care he, whether her eyes were blue or brown, if her name were only Annie? Oh, how could he find out that?

She was bidding the little ones "good-bye. " They were off from her, onthe sidewalk, when the elder child--a bright, laughing boy offive--sang out, kissing his little dimpled hand:

"Good-bye, Annie, darling!"

Edgar Roberts felt as if he would like to clasp the little fellow tothe heart he had relieved of all anxiety. No longer a doubt was in hismind. He had found his Annie Grey. 

From that afternoon, twice every day he passed the cottage of the widowGrey, frequently seeing sweet Annie. This, however, was his onlyreward. She never seemed at all conscious of his presence. Often hereyes would glance carelessly toward him. Oftener they were neverraised from her work. Sewing by the window, she always was. 

What next? How to proceed, on his fixed determination of winning her, if possible?

Another bright thought. He felt pretty sure she attended churchsomewhere; perhaps had a class in the Sabbath school. So the nextSunday morning, at an early hour, he was commanding a view of Annie'shome. When the school bells commenced to ring, he grew very anxious. A few moments, and the door opened and the object of his thoughtsstepped forth. How beautiful she looked in her pretty white suit! NowEdgar felt his cause was in the ascendancy. Some distance behind, andon the other side of the street, he followed, ever keeping her in viewuntil he saw her enter a not far distant church. Every Sunday afterfound him an attentive listener to the Rev. Mr. Ashton, who soon becameaware of the presence of the young gentleman so regularly, andapparently so much interested in the services. So the good man soughtan opportunity to speak to Edgar, and urge his accepting a charge inthe Sabbath school. We can imagine Edgar needed no great urging onthat subject; so, frequently, he stood near his Annie. In the library, while selecting books for their pupils, once or twice they had met, andhe had handed to her the volume for which her hand was raised. Ofcourse a smile and bow of acknowledgment and thanks rewarded him. 

Edgar was growing happier, and more confident of final success everyweek, when an event came which promised a speedy removal of alldifficulty in his path. The school was going to have a picnic. Thenand there he would certainly have an introduction to Annie, and afterspending a whole day with her, he would accompany her home and win theprivilege of calling often. 

The day of the picnic dawned brightly, and the happy party gathered onthe deck of the steamer. The first person who met Edgar Roberts' eyewas his fellow-student, Edward Roberts. Standing beside him were twoladies and some children. When Edgar hastened up to speak to hisfriend, the ladies turned, and Edward presented:

"My wife; my sister, Miss Grey. "

Edgar Roberts could scarcely suppress an exclamation of joy andsurprise. His looks fully expressed how delighted he was. 

Three months had he been striving for this, which, if he had only knownit, could have been obtained so easily through his friend and herbrother. But what was so difficult to win was the more highly prized. What a happy day it was!

Annie was all he had believed her--charming in every way. Edgar made aconfidant of his friend; told him what Edward well knew before, but waswise enough not to explain the mistake--of his hopes and fears; and wonfrom the prudent brother the promise to help him all he could. 

Accompanying Annie home that evening, and gaining her permission forhim to call again, Edgar lost no time in doing so, and often repeatedthe call. 

Perhaps Annie thought him very fast in his wooing, and precipitate indeclaring his love, when, after only a fortnight visiting her, he said:

"Annie, do you like me well enough, and trust in me sufficiently, toallow me to ask your mother to call me her son?"

Either so happy or so surprised was Annie, that she could not speakjust then. But roses crowded over her fair face, and she did not tryto withdraw the hand he had clasped. 

"Say, Annie, love, " he whispered. She raised her eyes to his with sucha strange, surprised look in them, that he laughed and said:

"You think I am very hasty, Annie. You don't know how long I've lovedyou, and have waited for this hour. "

"Long!--two weeks, " she said. 

"Why, Annie, darling, it is over three months since I've been able tothink of anything save Annie Grey--ever since the night I received mydiploma, and your sweet, encouraging bouquet, since that night I'veknown and loved you. And how I've worked for this hour!"

And then he told her how it was. And when he had finished, she lookedat him, her eyes dancing merrily, and though she tried hard to keep thelittle rosebud of a mouth demurely shut, it was no use--it would openand let escape a rippling laugh, as she said:

"And this is the work my bouquet went about, is it? This is the goodit has done me--" She hesitated; the roses deepened their color as shecontinued: "And you--"

"Yes, Annie, it has done much good to me, and I hope to you too. "

"But, Edgar--" it was the first time she had called him thus, and howhappy it made him--"I must tell you the truth--I never sent you abouquet!"

"No! oh, do not say so. Can there be another such Annie Grey?"

"No; I am the one who sent the bouquet; but, Edgar, you received itthrough a mistake. It was intended for my brother-in-law, Edward!"

"Stop, Annie, a moment-- Are you sorry that mistake was made? Do youregret it?" said Edgar, his voice filled with emotion. 

"No indeed, I am very glad you received it instead, " Annie ingenuouslyreplied; adding quickly, "But, please, do not tell Edward I said so. "

"No, no; I will not tell him that you care a little more for _Edgar_than _Edward_. Is that it? May I think so, Annie?"

She nodded her head, and he caught her to his heart, whispering:

"Mine at last. My Annie, darling! What a blessed mistake it was! MayI go to your mother, Annie?"

"Yes; and I'll go with you, Edgar, and hear if she will admit thoseflowers did any good. She thought it a useless expenditure. "

The widow Grey had become very much attached to the kind, attentiveyoung man, and when he came with Annie, and asked her blessing on theirlove, she gave it willingly; and after hearing all about the way ithappened, she said:

"Never did flowers such a good work before. They carried Edgar tochurch, made a Christian of him, and won for Annie a good, devotedhusband, and for me an affectionate son. "

THE END. 

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