for--that's heavenly!--that's
beyond all money's worth----"

He broke off and put his hand over his eyes. Mary feigned not to notice
his profound emotion, and, taking up a paper parcel on the table, opened
it, and unrolled a long piece of wonderful old lace, yellow with age,
and fine as a cobweb.

"Do you mind my going on with my work?" she asked, cheerily--"I'm
mending this for a Queen!" And as he took away his hand from his eyes,
which were suspiciously moist, and looked at her wonderingly, she nodded
at him in the most emphatic way. "Yes, truly, David!--for a Queen! Oh,
it's not a Queen who is my direct employer--no Queen ever knows anything
about me! It's a great firm in London that sends this to me to mend for
a Queen--they trust me with it, because they know me. I've had lace
worth thousands of pounds in my hands,--this piece is valued at eight
hundred, apart from its history--it belonged to Marie Louise, second
wife of Napoleon the First. It's a lovely bit!--but there are some cruel
holes in it. Ah, dear me!" And, sitting down near the door, she bent her
head closely over the costly fabric--"Queens don't think of the eyes
that have gone out in blindness doing this beautiful work!--or the hands
that have tired and the hearts that have broken over it! They would
never run pins into it if they did!"

He watched her sitting as she now was in the sunlight that flooded the
doorway, and tried to overcome the emotional weakness that moved him to
stretch out his arms to her as though she were his daughter, to call her
to his side, and lay his hands on her head in blessing, and to beg her
to let him stay with her now and always until the end of his days,--an
end which he instinctively felt could not be very long in coming. But he
realised enough of her character to know that were he to give himself
away, and declare his real identity and position in the world of men,
she would probably not allow him to remain in her cottage for another
twenty-four hours. She would look at him with her candid eyes, and
express her honest regret that he had deceived her, but he was certain
that she would not accept a penny of payment at his hands for anything
she had done for him,--her simple familiar manner and way of speech
would change--and he should lose her--lose her altogether. And he was
nervously afraid just now to think of what her loss might mean to him.
He mastered his thoughts by an effort, and presently, forcing a smile,
said