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

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

For some time longer he took no apparent notice of the child. He even
hardened his heart into disregarding her sudden flush of colour and
little timid smile of recognition, when he saw her by chance. But,
after all, this could not last for ever; and, having a second time
given way to tenderness, there was no relapse. The insidious enemy
having thus entered his heart, in the guise of compassion to the
child, soon assumed the more dangerous form of interest in the
mother. He was aware of this change of feeling--despised himself for
it--struggled with it; nay, internally yielded to it and cherished
it, long before he suffered the slightest expression of it, by word,
action, or look to escape him. He watched Alice's docile, obedient
ways to her stepmother; the love which she had inspired in the rough
Norah (roughened by the wear and tear of sorrow and years); but, above
all, he saw the wild, deep, passionate affection existing between her
and her child. They spoke little to anyone else, or when anyone else