wishing the woman would go, and not make any palaver of
gratitude. But she only said:

'I am very much obliged to you, sir. Thank you very much,' and was
gone, even before he could send her away with a 'There, my good woman,
that's enough!'

For some time longer he took no apparent notice of the child. He even
hardened his heart into disregarding her sudden flush of colour and
little timid smile of recognition, when he saw her by chance. But,
after all, this could not last for ever; and, having a second time
given way to tenderness, there was no relapse. The insidious enemy
having thus entered his heart, in the guise of compassion to the
child, soon assumed the more dangerous form of interest in the
mother. He was aware of this change of feeling--despised himself for
it--struggled with it; nay, internally yielded to it and cherished
it, long before he suffered the slightest expression of it, by word,
action, or look to escape him. He watched Alice's docile, obedient
ways to her stepmother; the love which she had inspired in the rough
Norah (roughened by the wear and tear of sorrow and years); but, above
all, he saw the wild, deep, passionate affection existing between her
and her child. They spoke little to anyone else, or when anyone else
was by; but, when alone together, they talked, and murmured, and
cooed, and chattered so continually, that Mr Openshaw first wondered
what they could find to say to each other, and next became irritated
because they were always so grave and silent with him. All this time
he was perpetually devising small new pleasures for the child. His
thoughts ran, in a pertinacious way, upon the desolate life before
her; and often he came back from his day's work loaded with the very
thing Alice had been longing for, but had not been able to procure.
One time, it was a little chair for drawing the little sufferer along
the streets; and, many an evening that following summer, Mr
Openshaw drew her along himself, regardless of the remarks of his
acquaintances. One day in autumn, he put down his newspaper, as Alice
came in with the breakfast, and said, in as indifferent a voice as he
could assume:

'Mrs Frank, is there any reason why we two should not put up our
horses together?'

Alice stood still in perplexed wonder. What did he mean? He had
resumed the reading of his newspaper, as if he did not expect any
answer; so she found silence her safest course, and went on quietly
arranging his breakf