I have been told,' replied the man in a clear, grave voice, 'that a
child of the name of Snowdon lives in your house, ma'am.'

'Eh? Who told you that?'

'The people next door but one. I've been asking at many houses in the
neighbourhood. There used to be relations of mine lived somewhere here;
I don't know the house, nor the street exactly. The name isn't so very
common. If you don't mind, I should like to ask you who the child's
parents was.'

Mrs. Peckover's eyes were searching the speaker with the utmost
closeness.

'I don't mind tellin' you,' she said, 'that there _is_ a child of that
name in the 'ouse, a young girl, at least. Though I don't rightly know
her age, I take her for fourteen or fifteen.'

The old man seemed to consult his recollections.

'If it's anyone I'm thinking of,' he said slowly, 'she can't be quite
as old as that.'

The woman's face changed; she looked away for a moment.

'Well, as I was sayin', I don't rightly know her age. Any way, I'm
responsible for her. I've been a mother to her, an' a good
mother--though I say it myself--these six years or more. I look on her
now as a child o' my own. I don't know who you may be, mister. P'r'aps
you've come from abroad?'

'Yes, I have. There's no reason why I shouldn't tell you that I'm
trying to find any of my kin that are still alive, There was a married
son of mine that once lived somewhere about here. His name was Joseph
James Snowdon. When I last heard of him, he was working at a
'lectroplater's in Clerkenwell. That was thirteen years ago. I deal
openly with you; I shall thank you if you'll do the like with me.'

'See, will you just come in? I've got a few friends in the front-room;
there's been a death in the 'ouse, an' there's sickness, an' we're out
of order a bit, I'll ask you to come downstairs.'

It was late in the afternoon, and though lights were not yet required
in the upper rooms, the kitchen would have been all but dark save for
the fire. Mrs. Peckover lit a lamp and bade her visitor be seated. Then
she re-examined his face, his attire, his hands. Everything about him
told of a life spent in mechanical labour. His speech was that of an
untaught man, yet differed greatly from the tongue prevailing in
Clerkenwell; he was probably not a Londoner by birth, and--a point of
more moment--he expressed himself in the tone of one who is habitually
thoughtful, who, if the aid of books has been denied to him, still has
won from life the ki