lid was pasted a discoloured piece of paper, and on the
paper was written, in a round, laborious hand, the name, 'John
Bolderfield.'

'My blazes!' he said, slowly, his bloodshot eyes opening wider than
ever. 'It's old John's money. So yo've been after it, eh?'

He turned to her with a grin, one hand on the box. He had been tramping
for more than three months, during which time they had heard nothing of
him. His filthy clothes scarcely hung together. His cheeks were hollow
and wolfish. From the whole man there rose a sort of exhalation of
sodden vice. Bessie had seen him drunken and out at elbows before, but
never so much of the beast as this.

However, by this time she had somewhat recovered herself, and,
approaching him, she stooped and tried to shut the box.

'You take yourself off,' she said, desperately, pushing him with her
fist. 'That money's no business o' yourn. It's John's, an he's comin
back directly. He gave it us to look after, an I wor countin it. March!
--there's your father comin!'

And with all her force she endeavoured to wrench his hand away. He tore
it from her, and hit out at her backwards--a blow that sent her reeling
against the wall.

'Yo take yer meddlin fist out o' that!' he said. 'Father ain't comin,
and if he wor, I 'spect I could manage the two on yer--_Keowntin_ it'--
he mimicked her. 'Oh! yer a precious innercent, ain't yer? But I know
all about yer. Bless yer, I've been in at the "Spotted Deer" to-night,
and there worn't nothin else talked of but yo and yor goins-on. There
won't be a tongue in the place to-morrow that won't be a-waggin about
yer--yur a public charickter, yo are--they'll be sendin the reporters
down on yer for a hinterview. "Where the Devil do she get the money?"
they says.'

He threw his curly head back and laughed till his sides shook.

'Lor, I didn't think I wor goin to know quite so soon! An sich queer
'arf-crowns, they ses, as she keeps a-changin. Jarge somethin--an old
cove in a wig. An 'ere they is, I'll be blowed--some on 'em. Well, yer a
nice un, yer are!'

He stared her up and down with a kind of admiration.

Bessie began to cry feebly--the crying of a lost soul.

'Tim, if yer'll go away an hold yer tongue, I'll give yer five o' them
suverins, and not tell yer father nothin.'

'Five on 'em?' he said, grinning. 'Five on 'em, eh?'

And dipping his hands into the box he began deliberately shovelling the
whole hoard into his trousers and waistcoat pock