'You could show me those letters you spoke of--of my son's
writing?'

'Of course I could,' was the reply, in the tone of coarse resentment
whereby the scheming vulgar are wont to testify to their dishonesty.

'Afterwards--afterwards. I should like to see Jane, if you'll be
so good.'

The mild voice, though often diffident, now and then fell upon a
note of quiet authority which suited well with the speaker's grave,
pure countenance. As he spoke thus, Mrs. Peckover rose, and said she
would first go upstairs just to see how things were. She was absent
ten minutes, then a little girl--Amy Hewett--came into the
kitchen and asked the stranger to follow her.

Jane had been rapidly transferred from the mattress to the bedstead,
and the room had been put into such order as was possible. A whisper
from Mrs. Peckover to Mrs. Hewett, promising remission of half a
week's rent, had sufficed to obtain for the former complete freedom
in her movements. The child, excited by this disturbance, had begun
to moan and talk inarticulately. Mrs. Peckover listened for a
moment, but heard nothing dangerous. She bade the old man enter
noiselessly, and herself went about on tip-toe, speaking only in a
hoarse whisper.

The visitor had just reached the bedside, and was gazing with deep,
compassionate interest at the unconscious face, when Jane, as if
startled, half rose and cried painfully, 'Mr. Kirkwood! oh, Mr.
Kirkwood!' and she stretched her hand out, appearing to believe that