'Only one to-night, eh?' said the woman.

'Thank you, only one,' he replied, as if speaking in a drawing-room.
'Forgive me if I express a hope that it will be, in the strict sense of the
word, new-laid. The last, I fancy, had got into that box by some
oversight--pardonable in the press of business.'

'They're always the same,' said the fat shopkeeper. 'We don't make no
mistakes of that kind.'

'Ah! Forgive me! Perhaps I imagined--'

Egg and lettuce were carefully deposited in a little handbag he carried,
and he returned home. An hour later, when his meal was finished, and he sat
on a straight-backed chair meditating in the twilight, a rap sounded at his
door, and a letter was handed to him. So rarely did a letter arrive for Mr.
Tymperley that his hand shook as he examined the envelope. On opening it,
the first thing he saw was a cheque. This excited him still more; he
unfolded the written sheet with agitation. It came from Mrs. Weare, who
wrote thus:--

'MY DEAR MR. TYMPERLEY,--After our talk last evening, I could not help
thinking of you and your beautiful life of self-sacrifice. I
contrasted the lot of these poor people with my own, which, one cannot
but feel, is so undeservedly blest and so rich in enjoyments. As a
result of these thoughts, I feel impelled to send you a little
contribution to your good work--a sort of thank-offering at the moment
of setting off for a happy holiday. Divide the money, please, among
two or three of your most deserving pensioners; or, if you see fit,
give it all to one. I cling to the hope that we may see you at