at a 'lectroplater's in Clerkenwell. That was thirteen years ago. I
deal openly with you; I shall thank you if you'll do the like with
me.'

'See, will you just come in? I've got a few friends in the
front-room; there's been a death in the 'ouse, an' there's sickness,
an' we're out of order a bit, I'll ask you to come downstairs.'

It was late in the afternoon, and though lights were not yet
required in the upper rooms, the kitchen would have been all but
dark save for the fire. Mrs. Peckover lit a lamp and bade her
visitor be seated. Then she re-examined his face, his attire, his
hands. Everything about him told of a life spent in mechanical
labour. His speech was that of an untaught man, yet differed greatly
from the tongue prevailing in Clerkenwell; he was probably not a
Londoner by birth, and--a point of more moment--he expressed
himself in the tone of one who is habitually thoughtful, who, if the
aid of books has been denied to him, still has won from life the
kind of knowledge which develops character. Mrs. Peckover had small
experience of faces which bear the stamp of simple sincerity. This
man's countenance put her out. As a matter of course, he wished to
overreach her in some way, but he was obviously very deep indeed.
And then she found it so difficult to guess his purposes. How would
he proceed if she gave him details of Jane's history, admitting that
she was the child of Joseph James Snowdon? What, again, had he been
told by the people of whom he had made inquiries? She needed time to
review her position.

'As I was sayin',' she resumed, poking the fire, 'I've been a mother
to her these six years or more, an' I feel I done the right thing by