he says, 'That's good enough for a
start,' 'e says, 'an' you come wiv me,' he says. 'Not much,' Lou says,
'not if I knows it. I seed your kind frequent.' But 'e stuck to it, an'
says, 'It's stryght, an' a lydy will come for you to-morrer, if you'll
be 'ere on this spot, or tell me w'ere you can be found.' An' Lou says,
says she, 'You buy my flowers, so's I kin git me bread-baskit full, an'
then I'll think it over.' An' he bought 'er flowers, an' give 'er five
bob. An' Lou paid rent for both of us wiv that, an' 'ad brekfist; an'
sure enough the lydy come next dy an' took her off. She's in the opery
now, an' she'll 'ave 'er brekfist reg'lar. I seed the lydy meself. Her
picture 's on the 'oardings--"

Suddenly he stopped. "W'y, that's 'er--that's 'er!" he said, pointing
to the mantel-piece.

Stafford followed the finger and the glance. It was Al'mah's portrait
in the costume she had worn over three years ago, the night when
Rudyard Byng had rescued her from the flames. He had bought it then. It
had been unpacked again by Gleg, and put in the place it had occupied
for a day or two before he had gone out of England to do his country's
work--and to face the bitterest disillusion of his life; to meet the
heaviest blow his pride and his heart had ever known.

"So that's the lady, is it?" he said, musingly, to the boy, who nodded
assent.

"Go and have a good look at it," urged Stafford.

The boy did so. "It's 'er--done up for the opery," he declared.

"Well, Lulu Luckingham is all right, then. That lady will be good to
her."

"Right. As soon as I seed her, I whispers to Lou 'You keep close to
that there wall,' I sez. 'There's a chimbey in it, an' you'll never be
cold,' I says to Lou."

Stafford laughed softly at the illustration. Many a time the lad
snuggled up to a wall which had a warm chimney, and he had got his
figure of speech from real life.

"Well, what's to become of you?" Stafford asked.

"Me--I'll be level wiv me rent to-day," he answered, turning over the
two shillings and some coppers in his pocket; "an' Lou and me's got a
fair start."

Stafford got up, came over, and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'm
going to give you a sovereign," he said--"twenty shillings, for your
fair start; and I want you to come to me here next Sunday-week to
breakfast, and tell me what you've done with it."

"Me--y'r gryce!" A look of fright almost came into the lad's face.
"Twenty bob--me!"

The sovereign was already