ut I don't get off, Mr.
Ovid Vere, without paying the penalty. You have taken something from me,
which was dearer than life, I wished to tell you that--I have no more to
say."

Ovid silently offered his hand.

Benjulia's head drooped in thought. The generous protest of the man whom
he had injured, spoke in that outstretched hand. He looked at Ovid.

"No!" he said--and walked away.

Leaving the street, he went round to Fairfield Gardens, and rang the
bell at Mr. Gallilee's door. The bell was answered by a polite old
woman--a stranger to him among the servants.

"Is Zo in the house?" he inquired.

"Nobody's in the house, sir. It's to be let, if you please, as soon as
the furniture can be moved."

"Do you know where Zo is? I mean, Mr. Gallilee's youngest child."

"I'm sorry to say, sir, I'm not acquainted with the family."

He waited at the door, apparently hesitating what to do next. "I'll go
upstairs," he said suddenly; "I want to look at the house. You needn't
go with me; I know my way."

"Thank you kindly, sir!"

He went straight to the schoolroom.

The repellent melancholy of an uninhabited place had fallen on it
already. The plain furniture was not worth taking care of: it was
battered and old, and left to dust and neglect. There were two common
deal writing desks, formerly used by the two girls. One of them was
covered with splashes of ink: varied here and there by barbarous
caricatures of faces, in which dots and strokes represented eyes, noses,
and mouths. He knew whose desk this was, and opened the cover of it.
In the recess beneath were soiled tables of figures, torn maps, and
dogs-eared writing books. The ragged paper cover of one of these last,
bore on its inner side a grotesquely imperfect inscription:--_my cop
book zo._ He tore off the cover, and put it in the breast pocket of his
coat.

"I should have liked to tickle her once more," he thought, as he went
down stairs again. The polite old woman opened the door, curtsying
deferentially. He gave her half a crown. "God bless you, sir!" she burst
out, in a gush of gratitude.

He checked himself, on the point of stepping into the street, and looked
at her with some curiosity. "Do you believe in God?" he asked.

The old woman was even capable of making a confession of faith politely.
"Yes, sir," she said, "if you have no objection."

He stepped into the street. "I wonder whether she is right?" he thought.
"It doesn't matter; I shall soon know