w can it be that I seem to know this
child? What was it she imperfectly recalled to me when I felt her touch
in the street, and, looking down at her, saw her looking up at me?"

"Mr. Jackson!"

With a start he turned towards the sound of the subdued voice, and saw
his answer standing at the door.

"Oh, Mr. Jackson, do not be severe with me! Speak a word of
encouragement to me, I beseech you."

"You are Polly's mother."

"Yes."

Yes. Polly herself might come to this, one day. As you see what the
rose was in its faded leaves; as you see what the summer growth of the
woods was in their wintry branches; so Polly might be traced, one day, in
a careworn woman like this, with her hair turned grey. Before him were
the ashes of a dead fire that had once burned bright. This was the woman
he had loved. This was the woman he had lost. Such had been the
constancy of his imagination to her, so had Time spared her under its
withholding, that now, seeing how roughly the inexorable hand had struck
her, his soul was filled with pity and amazement.

He led her to a chair, and stood leaning on a corner of the
chimney-piece, with his head resting on his hand, and his face half
averted.

"Did you see me in the street, and show me to your child?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Is the little creature, then, a party to deceit?"

"I hope there is no deceit. I said to her, 'We have lost our way, and I
must try to find mine by myself. Go to that gentleman, and tell him you
are lost. You shall be fetched by-and-by.' Perhaps you have not thought
how very young she is?"

"She is very self-reliant."

"Perhaps because she is so young."

He asked, after a short pause, "Why did you do this?"

"Oh, Mr. Jackson, do you ask me? In the hope that you might see
something in my innocent child to soften your heart towards me. Not only
towards me, but towards my husband."

He suddenly turned about, and walked to the opposite end of the room. He
came back again with a slower step, and resumed his former attitude,
saying:

"I thought you had emigrated to America?"

"We did. But life went ill with us there, and we came back."

"Do you live in this town?"

"Yes. I am a daily teacher of music here. My husband is a book-keeper."

"Are you--forgive my asking--poor?"

"We earn enough for our wants. That is not our distress. My husband is
very, very ill of a lingering disorder. He will never recover--"

"You check yourself. If it