breath, "my Lizzie starving! starving! and me with a plenty and to
spare!" It was his own child he was thinking of, his own Lizzie, the
little maiden who had been the apple of his eye, the joy and pride of
his life--and this was what she had come to!

The kettle sang and boiled on the hob, the fire burnt clear, but the
loaf lay on the table uncut, and still the old man sat staring before
him at the letter spread on the table, heeding nothing until a
thought came which roused him completely--though only to a deeper
sense of trouble. "However am I going to break the news to mother,"
he groaned. "Oh, my! but it'll upset her something cruel--and that
lazy, good-for-nothing fellow that she could never abide, have
brought it all upon us!"

His thoughts and his wonderings, though, were brought to a sudden
stop by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. "Why, Thomas, you were
so quiet I thought you must be asleep, or ill, or something, and I
was so worried I had to get up at last and come down and see."
Then, as her husband turned to her, and she caught sight of his face,
she grew really alarmed. "What is it? What has happened? There is
trouble, I can see it. Tell me what it is, quick, for pity's sake.
Don't 'ee keep me waiting."

He rose, and gently putting her into the chair he had been occupying,
he handed her Lizzie's letter. "That's the trouble, mother," he
said; "it might have been worse--that's all I can say. You must read
it for yourself, it'd choke me to do so if I was to try," and he went
away to the door and stood there gazing out at the sunny garden where
the daffodils bowed gently before the soft breeze, and the crocuses
opened their golden cups to the sun. But he saw nothing, all his