a showy style, but made of real gold and real gems, was beloved by
Mrs. Bell above all her worldly goods. Nevertheless, she parted with it
to make up the necessary price for the shot silk; for, what will not a
mother do for her child?

CHAPTER XII.

NINA, YOU ARE SO PERSISTENT.

"I wish you wouldn't worry me so, miss."

"Well, answer my question. Has Mr. Hart come back?"

"Yes--no--I'm sure I can't say. Maybe he's in his room, maybe he's not.
You do look dirty, miss, and tired--my word, awful tired. Now, where
have you been, Miss Josephine, since early yesterday morning? After no
good, I'll be bound. Oh, dear me, yes, after no good! You're a wild one,
and you're a daring one; and you'll come to a bad end, for all your eyes
are so bright, if you don't mind."

Josephine's queer, restless eyes flashed with an angry gleam.

"Do you know what this is?" she said, doubling up her small hand, and
thrusting the hard-looking fist within an inch or two of her irate
landlady's nose. "I knocked a man down before now with this, and I have
no respect for women. You'd better not anger me, Mrs. Timms."

"Oh, dear no, miss, I'm sure I meant no disrespect!"

"That's right. Don't say what you don't mean in future."

"I won't, Miss Josephine. Now I come to think of it, I expect Hart is at
home; I heard him shuffling about overhead last night."

"I'll go up and see," said Josephine.

She nodded to Mrs. Timms, and walked slowly, as though she were dead
tired, and every step was an effort to her, up the stairs. They were
rickety stairs, very dirty and dark, and unkept. Josephine went on and
on, until her upward ascent ended under a sloping attic roof. Here she
knocked at a closed door.

"Come in," said a voice.

She entered a long, low room, which did service as a sitting-room,
kitchen and studio, all combined. A little, old man with a long, white
beard and a bald head was bending over a stove, frying eggs.

"Is that you, Nina?" he said, without looking round. "If it is, you may
as well fry these eggs while I lay the cloth for supper."

"No, you can finish them yourself," replied Josephine. "I'm dead tired.
I'd rather eat no supper than cook it."

She flung herself into a long, low wicker-work chair, folded her hands
and closed her eyes. The old man turned the tail of one eye to glance at
her. Then he resumed his cooking, attending to it very carefully,
removing each egg, as it was browned, to a hot and clean dish