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Mr. Openshaw had been too busy all his days to be introspective. He did not know that he had any tenderness in his nature; and, if he had become conscious of its abstract existence, he would have considered it as a manifestation of disease in some part of him. But he was decoyed into pity unawares, and pity led on to tenderness. That little helpless child–always carried about by one of the three busy women of the house, or else patiently threading colored beads in the chair from which by no effort of its own, could it ever move–the great, grave blue eyes, full of serious, not uncheerful expression, giving to the small, delicate face a look beyond its years–the soft, plaintive voice, dropping out but few words, so unlike the continual prattle of a child, caught Mr. Openshaw’s attention in spite of himself. One day–he half scorned himself for doing so–he cut short his dinner-hour to go in search of some toy which should take the place of those eternal beads. I forget what he bought, but when he gave the present (which he took care to do in a short, abrupt manner, and when no one was by to see him) he was almost thrilled by the flash of delight that came over that child’s face, and he could not help, all through that 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 s
aid,

“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 color and little timid smile of recognition when he saw her by chance. But, after all, this could not last forever; 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 any one else or when any one else was by; but, when alone together, they talked, and murmured, and cooed, and chattered so continually, that Mr. Openshaw first wondered what they could find to say to each other, and next became irritated because they were always so grave and silent with him. All this time he was perpetually devising small new pleasures for the child. His thoughts ran, in a pertinacious way, upon the desolate life before her; and often he came back from his day’s work loaded with the very thing Alice had been longing for, but had not been able to procure. One time it was a little chair for drawing the little sufferer along the streets, and many an evening that following summer Mr. Openshaw drew her along himself, regardless of the remarks of his acquaintances. One day in autumn he put down his newspaper as Alice came in with the breakfast, and said, in as indifferent a voice as he could assume,