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‘Now, lassie, look at that piece of water there,’ he would say to her, at the pond on Clapham Common. ‘Cannot you imagine its going out and out until it gets far beyond the trees and houses yonder, until it gets beyond everything, and meets the sky?’

‘I see what you mean, sir,’ she would say; ‘but I can’t understand it: for I can’t help thinking, if there was nothing on the other side to hold it up, it must tumble down. How can water hold itself up in the air?’

‘Dear, dear me, lass!’ he would say impatiently, ‘have I not explained to ye how everything in the world, land and hills and everything, is held together?’

‘Yes, sir; but water shifts so,’ she would say; and he would take to something else.

The two months went by, and she got stronger and stronger, though sometimes she grew a little anxious about her chances of getting another situation. During this constant companionship, he had become much attached–in a compassionate sort of fashion–to this child whom chance had thrown in his way. He could see her good points, and her weak ones. She was of a kindly disposition; truthful, he thought; with no very distinct religion, but she had a general desire to be good; simple and frugal in her ways of living,–though this was a necessity, and she had no idea of frugality being in itself a virtue. On the other hand, her views as to what was most to be desired in life were simply the result of the atmosphere in which she had lived; and she confessed to him that the most beautiful thing she had ever seen was the arrivals at a Mansion House ball–the coloured stair-cloth, the beautiful ladies, the brilliant uniforms. Her knowledge of politics was entirely derived from the cartoons of the comic journals in the shop windows; and she had any quantity of vague and vulgar prejudices about Catholics, Radicals, and Jews. But this patient listener, who seemed interested in her foolish little opinions, was a largely tolerant man. Such things were; let us make the best of them,–that was what he seemed to say. And as all the phenomena of the universe appeared to him to be worthy of respectful attention–even if one did not go the length of vexing one’s self about any one of them–he was willing to learn that, in the opinion of this profound observer, the Catholic priests were bad men, who would let you do anything that was wrong if only you paid them enough money for absolution.

One evening, when he went round as usual, he found Mary Ann in great excitement; she had evidently been crying, and now she was laughing in a half-crying way.

‘What is the matter, lassie?’ said he severely, for he did not like ‘scenes.’

‘Oh, sir, Pete has written–at last–at last!’ she said, crying all the more, but in a glad sort of way, and looking again at the letter she held in her two hands.

‘But who is Pete?’

‘My sweetheart, sir; I never said anything about him–I thought he had forgotten us–but now he says he wouldn’t write until he had good news, and now there is good news enough,–oh yes, there is! there is! For he has got a good place, and good prospects–and here is money to take me out, and my mother and sisters, too–all except fifteen pounds, Pete says, and that he’ll send in three months’ time. Oh, sir! you don’t know what a good fellow Pete is!’

John Douglas sat down. His heart felt a little heavy; he scarcely knew why. But he began to ask a few questions, in a slow matter-of-fact way; and he did not remain long. He saw that the girl wanted to read and re-read the good news to herself, and draw pictures of all that was coming.

The next afternoon Mary Ann got a note from him, with an enclosure. Thus it ran:–