drink a glass of gin-and-water, and read the papers. There's no crime in
that, is there, Madge?"

His daughter smiled as she tried to arrange the shabby velvet collar of
his threadbare coat.

"No, father dear," she said; "and I'm sure I always wish you to enjoy
yourself. But you'll come home soon, won't you?"

"What do you call 'soon,' my lass?"

"Before ten o'clock. My day's work will be all over long before that,
and I'll try and get something nice for your supper."

"Very well, then, I'll be back by ten o'clock to-night. There's my hand
upon it."

He gave Margaret his hand, kissed her smooth cheeks, took his cane from
a corner of the room, and then went out.

His daughter watched him from the open window as he walked up the narrow
lane, amongst the groups of children gathered every here and there upon
the dusty pathway.

"Heaven have pity upon him, and keep him from sin!" murmured Margaret
Wentworth, clasping her hands, and with her eyes still following the
retreating figure.

James Wentworth jingled the money in his waistcoat-pocket as he walked
towards the railway station. He had very little; a couple of sixpences