rds through the open door.

She fell against the doorway of her bedroom, panting and breathless,
watching him.

He seated himself in her place, and stooped to look at the box. On the
inside of the lid was pasted a discoloured piece of paper, and on the
paper was written, in a round, laborious hand, the name, "John
Bolderfield."

"My blazes!" he said slowly, his bloodshot eyes opening wider than ever.
"It's old John's money! So yo've been after it, eh?"

He turned to her with a grin, one hand on the box. He had been tramping
for more than three months, during which time they had heard nothing of
him. His filthy clothes scarcely hung together. His cheeks were hollow
and wolfish. From the whole man there rose a sort of exhalation of
sodden vice. Bessie had seen him drunken and out at elbows before, but
never so much of the beast as this.

However, by this time she had somewhat recovered herself, and,
approaching him, she stooped and tried to shut the box.

"You take yourself off," she said, desperately, pushing him with her
fist. "That money's no business o' yourn, It's John's, an' he's comin'
back directly. He gave it us to look after, an' I wor countin' it.
March!--there's your father comin'!"

And with all her force she endeavoured to wrench his hand away. He tore
it from her, and hit out at her backwards--a blow that sent her reeling
against the wall.

"Yo take yer meddlin' fist out o' that!" he said. "Father ain't coming,
and if he wor, I 'spect I could manage the two on yer--_Keowntin'_ it--"
he mimicked her. "Oh! yer a precious innercent, ain't yer? But I know
all about yer. Bless yer, I've been in at the Spotted Deer to-night, and
there worn't nothin' else talked of but yo' and yor goin's on. There
won't be a tongue in the place to-morrow that won't be a-waggin' about
yer--yur a public charickter, yo' are--they'll be sendin' the reporters
down on yer for a hinterview. 'Where the devil do she get the money?'
they says."

He threw his curly head back and laughed till his sides shook.

"Lor', I didn't think I wor going to know quite so soon! An' sich queer
'arf-crowns, they ses, as she keeps a-changin'. Jarge somethin'--an old
cove in a wig. An' 'ere they is, I'll be blowed--some on 'em. Well, yer
a nice 'un, yer are!"

He stared her up and down with a kind of admiration.

Bessie began to cry feebly--the crying of a lost soul.

"Tim, if yer'll go away an' hold yer tongue, I'll give