London's Heart. B. L. Farjeon

you might have seen her face as it was when she was young."

      The old man's thoughts travelled back to the time when he first looked upon the baby-face of the cold hard grey form before him. He recalled the thrills of pleasure that hurried through him as he held the pretty child in his arms, and looked at his wife smiling happily in bed. His wife had died soon after the birth of this their only child, who had been a comfort to him until trouble came. It was all over now, and a new life had commenced for her.

      "I have thought sometimes," he said aloud, pursuing the commentary of his thoughts, "of the strangeness of spirits meeting under certain conditions of things."

      Alfred looked up in wonder, and the old man answered the look.

      "Ay, of spirits meeting. If you believe in immortality, you must believe in the meeting of spirits. What shape or form do they bear? Here, before us, is my daughter and your mother, an old woman in looks, aged by a grief that was hard enough to bear without being made harder by constant brooding. When my wife died, your mother was a babe, and my wife was almost a girl. So they parted. How do they meet now? This child of mine looks old enough to be the mother of my wife. How do they meet?--as mother and babe again? It is a strange thought, not to be answered. Yet by and by it shall be made plain to us."

      Alfred listened and wondered. Although he had not been unaccustomed to hear his grandfather speak of such matters, he had never before been impressed by them. As he bowed his head to the bed, other thoughts than selfish ones came to him,--thoughts which brought with them a consciousness of something higher than the aspirations by which he had hitherto been guided. If such influences as those which softened him and made him better for the time were less fleeting and more endurable, we should be the gainers. But in most cases they are as intangible in their effect as a breeze that touches us lightly. Winds come, and rain, and heavy clouds; and the unhealthful passion and desire that are stirred by the storm sweep the chastening thought into a lost oblivion.

      The old man looked hopefully upon the form of his grandson in its attitude of contrition and softened feeling, and he waited long before he desired Alfred to rise. With a distinct purpose, which he was anxious not to disguise, he at the same time moved the screen, so that, as he and Alfred sat at the table, the bed upon which the dead daughter and mother lay was not hidden from sight.

      "Alfred," the old man said, after a slight pause, "have you anything to tell me?"

      "What should I have to tell you, 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