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That she had recognized him was certain-as certain as that she had played into his hands, and put his enemies off the scent.

"I wonder," he thought, "that she did not ask my name and address. What a misfortune that she should have presented herself when I was in the street!"

He was not aware that the girl of whom he was thinking was following him stealthily, and had never for a moment lost sight of him.

He turned to the left, and reached the Embankment. It was quieter there. Blooming Bess followed him. There were few people about, and he strolled leisurely along, looking at the river. The principle of evil was strong within him. He belonged to that class of men who will hesitate at nothing that can be done with safety to protect themselves. He was not bold enough for deeds of violence; his nature was sufficiently ruthless, and he was not troubled with qualms of conscience; but his first consideration had ever been to keep himself on the safe side. In his methods he was sly, cunning, deceitful, treacherous; but physically he was a coward. He had, however, the greatest confidence in his resources. "I shall beat them all yet," he thought; and thought, too, what a stroke of fortune it would be if sudden death were to overtake those who stood in his path. He had passed Waterloo Bridge when he felt a touch upon his arm. He looked down and saw Blooming Bess.

"Oh," he said, with no outward show of displeasure.

"Yes," she said, with a smile.

To strangers this simple interchange of greeting would have been enigmatical, but these two understood each other, though socially he stood so high and she so low.

"Have you been following me?" he asked.

"Of course I have," she replied. "Too good to miss. I'm in luck. I say, you are a gentleman, ain't you-a real swell?"

"I am a gentleman, I hope," he said, with perfect sincerity.

"I hope so too. You've got plenty of tin?"

"Very little."

"All right. I'll go off to the other one."

He caught her arm.

"Don't be a fool!"

"That's just what I ain't going to be. Well, you're a nice one, you are! Not even a thankee for standing by you as I did."

"You will not be content with thanks," he said, gloomily.

"Not likely. Want something more solid. Now, didn't I stand by you like a brick? Just one word from Blooming Bess, and your whole box of tricks would have been upset. But I didn't let on, by so much as a wink. We took 'em in nicely between us, didn't we? 'You're the sort of gentleman,' says I, 'that would pay well for anything that was done for him.' 'I am,' says you. I say, if they'd guessed the game we were playing there'd have been a rumpus. I want to know your name, and where you live."

"You don't," he retorted. "You want money."

"I want that, too; but I want your name and address, and I mean to have it. I won't use it against you so long as you square me."

She spoke with so much determination that he gave her what she demanded.

"Mr. Parkinson knows the other one," she said; "and if I don't find you at home when I want, I'll find him. Have you got a sovereign about you?"

Surprised at the moderateness of the request, he gave her a sovereign.

"How's Mary?" she asked.

The question suggested to him a plan which offered greater safety than allowing her to go away with money, and perhaps drinking herself into dangerous loquacity.

"Would you like to see her?" he asked.

"I wouldn't mind," she replied.

"Come along with me, then," he said. "I'll take you to her."

CHAPTER XLIV

Mr. Manners experienced a great sense of relief when Mark Inglefield had taken his departure. The presence of that person had hampered not only his movements, but his will. Now that he was alone, he felt himself absolutely free. He exchanged a few words with Mr. Parkinson, in which he expressed again his good intentions towards the distracted father, and he spoke also to two or three other of the working-men, who, when he moved away from them, looked after him with marked favor. It chimed with his humor not to be known, and he was pleased that Mr. Parkinson had not made free with his name. The reminiscences attaching to him, from a working-man's point of view, would have caused him to be followed and gazed at with curiosity. The name of Manners was a name to conjure with; the great fortune he had made caused him to be regarded as a king among the class from which he sprang, and it was to his credit that he had amassed his wealth fairly, according to the conditions of things. Perhaps in the not far-off future these conditions will be changed, and it will be recognized that labor has a right to a larger proportion of its profits than at present falls to its lot. Meanwhile it may be noted that, despite the private wrong which lay at the door of Mr. Manners, and which he was happily stirred now to set right, despite the fact that in his business relations he had driven hard bargains, his public career was one of which he might be justly proud. Hard as were the bargains he had driven, he had not ground his workmen down; if they did a fair day's work they received a fair day's wage; he had made no attempt to filch them of their just due. In contrast with many a hundred employers of labor, who grind the men and women they employ down to starvation point, Mr. Manners stood forth a shining example. As for his private affairs, they were his, and his alone, to settle. Whatever changes for the better may come over society in the coming years, the purely human aspect of life will never be altered. There will always be private wrongs and private injustices; and although it is to be hoped that the general inequalities of mankind may be lessened, the frailties of our common nature will ever remain the same.

Mr. Manners strolled slowly through streets and narrow ways with which, in his youth, he had been familiar, and he derived a sad pleasure in renewing his acquaintance with the aspects of life which characterized them. He noted the changes which had taken place. Here, a well-known street had disappeared; rows of private dwellings had been turned into shops; but for the main part things were as they used to be. He searched for a certain house in which he had resided as a boy, and, finding it, gazed upon its old walls as he would have gazed upon the face of an old friend who had long since passed out of his life. He recalled himself as he had been in the past, a brisk, stirring, hard-working lad, taking pleasure in his work, eager to get along in the world, keen for chances of promotion, industriously looking about for means to improve himself. Between that time and the present was a bridge which memory re-created, and over that bridge he walked in pensive thought, animated by tenderer feelings than he had experienced for many, many years. Once more he felt an interest in the ways and doings of his fellowmen, and it seemed to him as if he had long been living a dead life. The crust of selfishness in which he had been as it were entombed was melting away, and even in these humble thoroughfares the sun was shining more brightly for him. Such a simple thing as a geranium blooming in a pot on the window-sill of his old home brought an unwonted moisture to his eyes. He knocked at the door, conversed with the woman who opened it, ascertained her position, listened to what she had to say about her children, wrote down their names, and left behind him some small tokens for them from one who once was as they were now.

"You shall hear from me again," he said to the surprised woman; and as he left her he felt new channels of pleasure and sweetness were opening out to him. He was becoming human.

When he started with Mark Inglefield from his home in the west of the city, he had formed no plan as to the means by which he should approach Kingsley and Nansie; but after some time spent in wandering among the thoroughfares and seeking old landmarks, he resolved not to present himself to them until evening. It would be a more favorable hour for what he purposed to do. Until then he could profitably employ himself in ascertaining how they stood in the neighborhood, and whether Mr. Parkinson's report of them was correct. It was three o'clock in the afternoon before he felt the necessity of eating, and then he entered a common eating-house and sat down to a humble meal. It was strange how he enjoyed it, and how agreeable he felt this renewal of old associations. When he had finished, he took out his pocket-book and made some rough calculations. The poverty of the neighborhood had impressed itself upon him, and he thought how much good the expenditure of money he could well spare would do for the children who were growing into men and women. He remembered the want of rational enjoyment he had experienced occasionally in his boyhood. He had not then many spare hours; but there had come upon him at odd times the need for social relaxation. There was only one means of satisfying this need-the public-house-and that way, as he knew, led to ruin. From what Mr. Parkinson had told him, Nansie was untiring in her efforts to ameliorate and smooth the hard lot of the wretched and poverty-stricken; and, poor as she was, had succeeded in shedding light upon weary hearts. If, in her position, she could do so much, how vast was the field before him to do more!

He made his calculations, and was surprised to find, when the figures were before him, that he was richer than he had supposed himself to be. In former days he was in the habit of making such calculations; but for a long while past he had not troubled himself about them-a proof how truly valueless his great store of wealth was to him, and how scanty was the enjoyment he derived from it. Supposing that Mark Inglefield justified and cleared himself in this affair of Mary Parkinson-of which, notwithstanding all that had transpired, Mr. Manners was not yet completely satisfied-half of his fortune should go to the redeeming of his promises to that person in respect of the expectations held out to him. The remaining half would be ample for the carrying out of schemes as yet unformed, in the execution of which, if all went well, Kingsley and Nansie would assist him.

Issuing from the eating-house with a light step, he proceeded to make his inquiries respecting his son's family. What he heard made him even more humble and remorseful. Every person to whom he spoke had affectionate words for them; nothing but good was spoken of them. They were not only respected, but beloved.

"If you want to know more about them than I can tell you, sir," said one poor woman to whom Nansie had been kind, "go to Dr. Perriera."

Receiving Dr. Perriera's address, Mr. Manners wended thither, and found the worthy doctor, who was now a man well advanced in years, in his shop. With Dr. Perriera he had a long and pregnant interview. In confidence he told the doctor who he was, and Dr. Perriera's heart glowed at the better prospect which seemed to present itself to friends whom he honored. Forces which had long lain dormant in Mr. Manners came into play; always a good judge of character, he recognized that he was conversing with a man of sterling worth and honor.

"I have been informed," he said, "that you are a doctor of great skill. You would have succeeded in more flourishing neighborhoods than this."

"I preferred to stay here," said Dr. Perriera. "Elsewhere I should not have found the happiness I have enjoyed among these poor people."

"But you would have been rich."

"It would have marred my life," was the simple rejoinder. "You and I are on equal ground, about the same age, I judge. We have not many years to live. Of what use presently will much money be to you and me? Men and women grow into false ideas; most of those who become rich become slaves. Gold is their master-a frightful tyrant, destructive, as it is chiefly used, of all the teachings of Christianity. But, then, Christians are scarce."

Mr. Manners hinted at his unformed schemes, and Dr. Perriera was greatly interested.

"What the poor and wretched want," he said, "is light, first for the body, afterwards for the soul. Not the light of gin-shops, which are poisonously planted by the wealthy at every convenient corner. Sweep away the rookeries; purify the gutters; commence at the right end. There are darksome spaces round about, in which only vice and crime can grow; and they are allowed to remain, defiling and polluting body and soul. There is a false, convenient theory, that you cannot make people moral by act of Parliament. My dear sir, you can. Cleanliness is next to godliness; that is a wiser saying; and governments would be better employed in enforcing this than in ninety-nine out of every hundred of the acts they waste their time in discussing."

"What do you mean," asked Mr. Manners, "by your remark, commence at the right end?"

"Commence with the children," replied Dr. Perriera, "not neglecting meanwhile those who are grown up. These children presently will become fathers and mothers, and their early teaching bears fruit. It is impossible to train anew firmly rooted trees, but they can be gently and wisely treated. With saplings it is different."

They remained in conversation until evening fell. Mr. Manners had received Kingsley's address, and the two men were standing at the door of the doctor's shop when an elderly man and a young girl passed. In the elderly man Mr. Manners recognized Mr. Loveday, Nansie's uncle, who had once paid him a visit in his grand mansion. But it was the girl who chiefly attracted him. Her sweet face, her gentle bearing, impressed him, but more than all was he impressed by a likeness which caused his heart to beat more quickly. It was a likeness to his son.

Dr. Perriera glanced at Mr. Manners, and called the girl, who, with her companion, paused to say a word or two.

"Is your mother well?" asked the doctor.

"Quite well, thank you," replied the girl.

"And your father?"

"Quite well."

"How is business, Mr. Loveday?"

"So-so," said the old book-man. "I can't compete very well with the youngsters. Their brazen voices beat me."

He said this quite good-humoredly.

"We must make way for the young," observed the doctor.

"Yes, yes; but the necessity of living is upon the old as well."

"Are you going home now?"

"Yes," said the girl, answering for her uncle. "We have been to see the new shop."

"Whose?"

"Timothy Chance's."

She laughed kindly as she spoke the name.

"See," said Mr. Loveday, opening a small parcel he held in his hand, "we've been making a purchase there."

What he disclosed to view was half a cooked fowl. Dr. Perriera appeared to be greatly interested in this simple food.

"How much did you pay for it?"

"One and four."

"That is cheap. A fat fowl, too."

"Yes. The shop is crowded; people are buying like wildfire. Timothy will make a fortune."

"He has pretty well made one already. Sharp fellow, Timothy Chance, and a worthy fellow, too."

The girl nodded, and Mr. Loveday observed:

"He is just the same as ever. Not a bit altered. Never forgets old friends, and never will forget them. That come-by-chance waif is of the right mettle. He is with Nansie now. We are going to see him. Come along, Hester."

"Can you guess who that young lady is?" asked Dr. Perriera of Mr. Manners.

"I am almost afraid to guess. Tell me."

"Your grandchild. Have you never seen her before?"

"Never."

"If I had a daughter," said Dr. Perriera, "I should esteem it a great blessing if she were like Hester Manners. She has all the virtues of her mother, all the simplicity and nobility which distinguish her father. She has been trained in the right school. I regard it as an honor that I am privileged to call myself her friend. Do you wish to proceed at once to your son's poor dwelling?"

"I would prefer to see him alone. This friend whom my grandchild spoke of is there; I will wait awhile."

"It will be best, perhaps. My place is at your service. If it accords with your desire you can remain here, and I will bring your son to you."

"I thank you," said Mr. Manners, "and accept your kind offer."

His heart was stirred by hopes and fears. It went out to the sweet girl he had seen for the first time; she was of his blood; but had he any claim to her affection? How would her parents receive him-her parents, to whom she was bound by the strongest links of love, and whom he had treated so harshly and unjustly? There was a time when he thought he could never bring himself to forgive the son who had disappointed his worldly hopes; but now it was he himself who needed forgiveness. The happiness of his brief future depended upon the son he had wronged; if Kingsley and Nansie rejected him, the anguish of a lonely, loveless life would attend him to his last hour.

"I should advise," said Dr. Perriera, "that you wait awhile before the interview takes place. Timothy Chance and your son's family are much attached to each other, and it will be an act of delicacy not to immediately intrude upon them."

"An act of delicacy?" repeated Mr. Manners, looking at Dr. Perriera for an explanation.

"I have an idea," said the doctor, "that Timothy Chance has a tender feeling for your grandchild. Whether it is reciprocated or not, I cannot say. There is a disparity in their ages of fourteen or fifteen years, but that should be no obstacle. I hold that in married life the man should be some years older than the woman."

"You have hinted that this Timothy Chance is well-to-do."

"He is more than that. He is on the high-road to a fortune. I am curious to see the shop he has opened. Will you come? We have time. On the road I will relate to you Timothy Chance's story. It is, in its way, remarkable."

They started out together, and, with a heart gloomed by the intrusion of this friend of his son's family, Mr. Manners listened to the doctor's narrative. In Kingsley's eyes his money had never been deemed of importance; Kingsley had never stooped or cringed before that universal idol. How much less was he likely to do so now that he had by his side a friend who could lift him from the state of poverty to which the hard father had condemned him? Not purse-strings, but heart-strings, would decide the issue of his heart's desire.

Up to the point with which we are familiar there is no need to set down here what Dr. Perriera imparted to his companion. We will take up the thread from the time of Timothy Chance's last appearance upon the scene.

"Timothy has made the best use of his opportunities," said the doctor. "From the small beginnings which I have recounted he has risen by slow and sure steps to be, I should say, the largest poultry breeder in the kingdom. He has farms in half a dozen different places, and it is necessary, of course, that at stated intervals he should get rid of old stock to make room for new. His contracts are really important ones, and he turns over a large amount of money during the year. Lately an idea occurred to him, which he is now turning to practical account. Instead of selling his old stock to hotels and shopkeepers, he believes it will be more profitable to speculate in it himself. As a trial, he has opened a shop in the neighborhood here, which I regard as a boon to the people. He will send so many fowls there every day, and they will be cooked and disposed of to those who can afford to buy. I think his idea was inspired by something of a similar nature which he saw in France. You can purchase a whole roasted fowl, a half, a wing and breast, or a leg. The prices are very moderate, the poultry is of good quality, the cooking is sure to be excellent, for Timothy is perfect in all his arrangements. Here we are at his trial shop."

It was, indeed, a notable establishment, and, as Hester had said, was crowded with customers. The predominating features of the shop were light and cleanliness. At the rear of the shop were the stoves at which the fowls were roasted, and these were cut up, or arranged whole, upon marble slabs. The attendants were all females, and wore light print dresses and spotlessly clean white aprons and caps; order and system reigned, and the money was rolling in. It was an animated scene, made the more agreeable by the pleasant faces and the civility which distinguished those who were attending to the customers.

"It will do," said Dr. Perriera, in a tone of approval. "Before the year is out Timothy will have a score of such shops in poor localities. He is made of the right stuff; his future is assured. Let us return now, and I will bring your son to you."