they
are blind to. But here I confess I saw nothing but the ghastly misery
and squalor, and I was oppressed almost to sickness as much by the
scene as by the atmosphere.

'May I open a window?' I could not help inquiring.

The genial landlord, who had followed in my footsteps, rushed to
anticipate me, and when I could breathe more freely, I found something
of the tragedy that had been swallowed in the sordidness. My eye fell
again on the figure of my host standing in his drooping majesty, the
droop being now necessary to avoid striking the ceiling with his
kingly head.

Surely a pretty wife and graceful daughters would have detracted from
the splendour of the tragedy. Israel stood there, surrounded by all
that was mean, yet losing nothing of his regal dignity--indeed the Man
of Sorrows.

* * * * *

Ere I left I suddenly remembered to ask after the three younger
children. They were still with their kind benefactor, the father told
me.

'I suppose you will resume possession of them when you make your
fortune by the piece-sorting?' I said.

'God grant it,' he replied. 'My bowels yearn for that day.'

Against my intention I slipped into his hand the final seven pounds I
was prepared to pay. 'If your partnership scheme fails, try again
alone,' I said.

His blessings pursued me down the steep staircase. His womankind
remained shy and dumb.

When I got home I found a telegram from the Parsonage. My father was
dangerously ill. I left everything and hastened to help nurse him. My
picture was not sent in to any Exhibition--I could not let it go
without seeing it again, without a last touch or two. When, some
months later, I returned to town, my first thought--inspired by the
sight of my picture--was how Quarriar was faring. I left the studio
and telephoned to Sir Asher Aaronsberg at the London office of his
great Middleton business.

'That!' His contempt penetrated even through the wires. 'Smashed up
long ago. Just as I expected.'

And the sneer of the professional philanthropist vibrated
triumphantly. I was much upset, but ere I could recover my composure
Sir Asher was cut off. In the evening I received a note saying
Quarriar was a rogue, who had to flee from Russia for illicit sale of
spirits. He had only two, at most three, elderly daughters; the three
younger girls were a myth. For a moment I was staggered; then all my
faith in Israel returned. Those three children a figment of