xed in front of
it. To keep him amused while she did her work, Ruth had given him a
piece of bread and raspberry jam, which the child had rubbed all over
his face and into his scalp, evidently being under the impression that
it was something for the improvement of the complexion, or a cure for
baldness. He now looked as if he had been in a fight or a railway
accident. The child hailed the arrival of Slyme with enthusiasm, being
so overcome with emotion that he began to shed tears, and was only
pacified when the man gave him the jar of sweets and took him out of
the chair.

Slyme's presence in the house had not proved so irksome as Easton and
Ruth had dreaded it would be. Indeed, at first, he made a point of
retiring to his own room after tea every evening, until they invited
him to stay downstairs in the kitchen. Nearly every Wednesday and
Saturday he went to a meeting, or an open-air preaching, when the
weather permitted, for he was one of a little zealous band of people
connected with the Shining Light Chapel who carried on the 'open-air'
work all the year round. After a while, the Eastons not only became
reconciled to his presence in the house, but were even glad of it. Ruth
especially would often have been very lonely if he had not been there,
for it had lately become Easton's custom to spend a few evenings every
week with Crass at the Cricketers.

When at home Slyme passed his time playing a mandolin or making
fretwork photo frames. Ruth had the baby's photograph taken a few
weeks after Slyme came, and the frame he made for it was now one of the
ornaments of the sitting-room. The instinctive, unreasoning aversion
she had at first felt for him had passed away. In a quiet, unobtrusive
manner he did her so many little services that she found it impossible
to dislike him. At first, she used to address him as 'Mr' but after a
time she fell naturally into Easton's practice of calling him by his
first name.

As for the baby, he made no secret of his affection for the lodger, who
nursed and played with him for hours at a stretch.

'I'll serve your dinner now, Alf,' said Ruth when she had finished
scrubbing the floor, 'but I'll wait for mine for a little while. Will
may come.'

'I'm in no hurry,' replied Slyme. 'I'll go and have a wash; he may be
here then.'

As he spoke, Slyme--who had been sitting by the fire nursing the
baby--who was trying to swallow the jar of sweets--put the child back
into the hi