aven of rest with Paasch as an
errand-boy at five shillings a week.

His cigarette was finished, and there was no sign of Ada. He swore at
himself for coming, picked up his hat, and turned to go. But, at that
moment, from the corner of the room, came a thin, wailing cry. Jonah
started violently, and then, as he recognized the sound, smiled grimly.
It was the baby, awakened by the light. He remembered that Mrs Yabsley
often left it alone in the house.

But the infant, thoroughly aroused, gave out a querulous note, thin and
sustained. Jonah stooped to blow out the candle, and then, with a
sudden curiosity, walked over to the cradle.

It was a box on rough rollers, made out of a packing-case, grimy with
dirt from the hands that had rocked it. Jonah pulled it out of the
corner into the light, and the child, pacified by the sight of a face,
stopped crying.

Fearful of observation, he looked round, and then stared intently at
the baby. It was a meeting of strangers, for Mrs Yabsley, aware of his
aversion from the child, had kept it out of the way. It was the first
baby that he had seen at close quarters, for he had never lived in a
house with one. And he looked at this with the curiosity with which
one looks at a foreigner--surprised that he, too, is a man.

The child blinked feebly under the light of the candle, which Jonah was
holding near. Its fingers moved with a mechanical, crab-like motion.

With an odd sensation Jonah remembered that this was his child--flesh
of his flesh, bone of his bone--and, with a swift instinct, he searched
its face for a sign of paternity.

The child's bulging forehead bore no likeness to Jonah's which sloped
sharply from the eyebrows, and the nose was a mere dab of flesh; but
its eyes were grey, like his own. His interest increased. Gently he
stroked the fine silky down that covered its head, and then, growing
bolder, touched its cheek. The delicate skin was smooth as satin under
his rough finger.

The child, pleased with his touch, smiled and clutched his finger,
holding it with the tenacity of a monkey. Jonah looked in wonder at
that tiny hand, no bigger than a doll's. His own fist, rough with
toil, seemed enormous beside it.

Flesh of his flesh, he thought, half incredulous, as he compared his
red, hairy skin with that delicate texture; amazed by this miracle of
life--the renewal of the flesh that perishes.

Then he remembered his deformity, and, with a sudden catc