London's Heart: A Novel. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

grandfather, except-except to repeat that I am ashamed of myself for coming home dr – not quite sober, and that I beg your pardon?"

      The old man did not look up; he toyed with Lily's workbox, which was on the table, and said gently, pointing to the bed,

      "Ask pardon there. But you have done that, I think."

      "Yes, grandfather, indeed."

      "That is something. At such a time as this we should be considerate of one another. These occasions happily come but seldom in life, and sometimes they open the road to amendment. Tell me, Alfred, have I been kind to you?"

      "Yes, grandfather."

      "And you look upon me as a friend?"

      "Yes."

      "Yet you have nothing to say to me-no confidence to repose in me?"

      "Nothing particular that I can think of."

      A shade of disappointment passed across the old man's face like a cloud. But a rift of light chased it away as he said,

      "You love Lily?"

      "Indeed I do that, grandfather."

      "She has but you and me, Alfred, as protectors; and she needs protection. She is surrounded by temptation. I am growing very old; my strength may fail me any day, and you may be called upon suddenly to play the part of guardian to her. You are young for it."

      "But I'm strong enough, don't fear, grandfather. Lily will be all right; I'll see to that! I'll take her away from the music-hall soon. I don't like her being there – "

      "You forget, Alfred, she earns our living."

      "Yes, I know; but it isn't to be expected that she should always do that."

      "I am glad to hear you say so. Yet you yourself are doing but little at present; you only earn – "

      "Fifteen shillings a week. I know! Tickle and Flint are the stingiest old brutes in London. Of course I can't do much out of fifteen shillings a week. I must have clothes, and other things; and I can't help spending a shilling or two, and somehow or other it all goes. I must do as other young men do. I asked Tickle and Flint for a rise once; but the old screws shook their heads, referred to the agreement, and told me not to ask again."

      "They were right. If you are industrious and painstaking, a prosperous future is before you."

      "O, but it's too slow!" exclaimed Alfred, with an impatient shake of the head. "I am bound to them for three years more before I can make a start. It's preposterous! Never mind, I'll show them! I know a way."

      "What way?" asked the old man suddenly, looking at his grandson.

      "Never mind now," replied Alfred evasively. "You'll see by-and-by."

      "There is but one way," observed the old man quietly-"the straight way. Alfred, go to the cupboard, and bring me a small iron box you will see there."

      A sudden paleness came over Alfred's face.

      "A small iron box, grandfather?" he echoed, with a curious indecision, and with a nervous trembling of the lips.

      "Yes," said the old man sadly; "you know the box. You have seen it many times."

      Alfred hesitated for one moment only, and then, as if much depended upon prompt action, walked swiftly to the cupboard, and taking out a small iron box, laid it before his grandfather. The old man took a key from his pocket, and put it into the lid, but did not turn the lock.

      "I daresay," he said, slowly and distinctly, "you have often wondered what was in this little box. Every house, every family, has its skeleton. This box has contained ours."

      "Why speak of it to-night, grandfather?" asked Alfred, nervously. "Surely it is time to go to bed. Leave this matter till to-morrow."

      "Nay, it must be spoken of now, in the presence of your dead mother and my daughter. I asked you a few minutes since if you had anything to tell me. You answered not in the manner I hoped and expected. I ask you again now. Have you anything to say to me? Is there anything on your mind that it would relieve you to speak of? Think a little. Errors may be repaired; but a time comes when it is too late for reparation. Look at your mother, and say if it is not too late to make reparation for unatoned suffering. If I wrong you in speaking thus to you, I ask your pardon, my boy; but I am speaking with a strong fear upon me-a fear that a life may be wrecked by wrong-doing, as was one very near to you."

      Alfred, who had listened with eyes averted from the table, caught eagerly at the last sentence.

      "You do me wrong, grandfather," he said, in tones which he vainly strove to make firm-"a cruel wrong-in speaking in this way to me! I don't understand you. It is not the first time to-night that you have thrown out these insinuations. What did you mean by saying to me that the remorse of a too-late repentance is a bitter experience? And then, saying, God keep me free from crime?"

      "I repeat it, Alfred. Once more I pray to God to keep you from crime! Once more I say that the remorse of a too-late repentance is the bitterest of experiences!"

      "I deny your right to say these things to me!" cried Alfred violently. "I deny it entirely. I'll not stand it, grandfather! I shall go!"

      "Stay!" exclaimed the old man in a tone of command. "I made a promise to your mother to speak to you this night of your father."

      "My father!" Alfred caught at the table, and his heart beat wildly at the thought of what was to come.

      "I have never spoken of him to you before, but the wishes of the dead must be respected. Sit down and listen. In this box I have been accustomed for years to put by small savings for a special purpose, of which you shall presently hear. Lily's earnings lately and my own trifling pittance were more than sufficient for our wants, and money was saved, little by little, until a fortnight ago I had very nearly one hundred pounds in this box. When you learn to what purpose this money was to be applied, you will better understand my motives for speaking of it in this manner. One hundred pounds was the exact sum required, and I hoped in a month to have counted it out, and to have completed a tardy atonement for a life's disgrace." Alfred turned to his grandfather in amazement, but did not speak. "Shilling by shilling," continued the old man steadily, "the little heap grew and grew. No miser ever valued gold and silver more than I did the money this box contained. I hoarded it, counted it, reckoned upon my fingers how many days would elapse before the sum was reached. No one knew of it, as I thought, but your mother and I. Certainly no one but we two knew the purpose to which it was to be applied. Three weeks this night, leaving the box in the cupboard, I went to bring Lily home from the hall. I was away for more than an hour. When I returned, I found your mother strangely agitated, but could not ascertain the cause. I questioned her, but learned nothing. The following day I opened this box. It was empty. The money was gone!"

      He turned the key and opened the box. It contained nothing but two pieces of faded yellow paper.

      "See," said the old man, directing Alfred's attention to the box; "there is nothing in it but these sheets of paper. Every shilling was stolen."

      "I see, grandfather," said Alfred, with a furtive look into the box. "Do you know who took the money?"

      "No, I do not know."

      "Did mother know?"

      "I am not sure."

      "How not sure, grandfather?" asked Alfred, with an effort to appear at his ease. "Did mother speak of it?"

      "No; and I spared her the grief that telling her of the loss would have caused her."

      "Then how can you say you are not sure whether mother knew? If she had known, she would have spoken. You know," added Alfred, his manner, which had hitherto been moody and embarrassed, brightening a little, "that I am going to be a lawyer, and lawyers are fond of asking questions."

      The change in Alfred's manner produced a singular effect upon the old man; it rendered him more sad and troubled. Hitherto he had exhibited a strange eagerness when Alfred showed most embarrassment; and as this disappeared, and Alfred became more at his ease, an expression of absolute grief stole into the old man's face.

      "The lock has not been tampered with," observed Alfred, examining