'Nellie, Nellie,' he cried, for she had gone upstairs to the children,
'come down at once; who do you think this is, Nellie? You will never
guess. It is Jack Villiers, the little Jack you and I used to know so
well. Why, do you know,' he said, 'our own little Jack was named after
you; he was indeed, and we haven't heard of you for years--never since
your dear mother died.'

I was too much astonished at first to ask him any questions, and he was
too much delighted to explain where and how he had known me; but after a
time, when we had recovered ourselves a little, we drew our chairs round
the fire, and he began his story.

'I was a poor little street Arab once,' he said; 'a forlorn boy with no
one to love him or to care for him. But I made friends with an old man
in the attic of the lodging-house who had a barrel-organ.'

'_That_ barrel-organ?' I asked.

'The very same,' he said, 'and he loved it as if it was a child. When he
was too ill to take it out himself, I took it for him, and that was how
I first saw your mother.'

'Was she married then?' I asked.

'No,' he said with a smile; 'she was quite a little girl, about the age
of our Marjorie. She used to run to her nursery window as soon as she
heard me begin to play. I let her turn the organ one day, and she said
she liked all the tunes, but she liked "Home, Sweet Home" the best of
all.'