; and he said it was not the
first time he had stood fire, and then said good-bye; and I slipped the
potatoes into my pocket immediately, thankful that they were not wasted.
My father pulled me away roughly from the laughing and staring people
on the bridge. But I knew the potatoes were only bruised. Even three
potatoes will prevent you from starving. They were very fine ones, for I
always took care to buy them good. When I reached home--"

Wilfrid had risen, and was yawning with a desperate grimace. He bade her
continue, and pitched back heavily into his seat.

"When I reached home and could be alone with my mother, she told me my
father had been out watching me the day before, and that he had filled
his pockets that morning. She thought he was going to walk out in the
country and get people on the road to cook them for him. That is what
he has done when he was miserable,--to make himself quite miserable,
I think, for he loves streets best. Guess my surprise! My mother
was making my head ache with her complaints, when, as I drew out the
potatoes to show her we had some food, there was a purse at the bottom
of my pocket,--a beautiful green purse! O that kind gentleman! He must
have put it in my hand with the potatoes that my father flung at him!
How I have cried to think that I may never sing to him my best to please
him! My mother and I opened the purse eagerly. It had ten pounds in
paper money, and five sovereigns, and silver,--I think four shillings.
We determined to keep it a secret; and then we thought of the best way
of spending it, and decided not to spend it all, but to keep some for
when we wanted it dreadfully, and for a lesson or two for me now and
then, and a music-score, and perhaps a good violin for my father, and
new strings for him and me, and meat dinners now and then, and perhaps
a day in the country: for that was always one of my dreams as I watched
the clouds flying over London. They seemed to be always coming from
happy places and going to happy places, never stopping where I was! I
cannot be sorrowful long. You know that song of mine that you like so
much--my own composing? It was a song about that kind gentleman. I got
words to suit it as well as I could, from a penny paper, but they don't
mean anything that I mean, and they are only words."

She did not appear to hear the gallant cornet's denial that he cared
particularly for that song.

"What I meant was,--that gentleman speaks--I have fought