“Pshaw!” ejaculated the man, pulling the greasy cap over his eyes in a spirit of savage determination.  “I can’t waste time talking.  I will find out why he don’t pay me now.”

The inexorable Mr. Gilsum pushed aside the feeble hand of the little girl, and was about to go up the stairs in good earnest, when Marcus Wilkeson, who had lingered near the door to catch the exact purport of the conversation, called out to him: 

“Hallo, my friend! what’s the row?”

Mr. Gilsum stopped, and, turning, said snappishly: 

“None of yer business.  Unless,” he prudently added, “yer a friend of the comical old chap up stairs, and want to pay his debts.”

“I am a friend, and I will pay them,” rejoined Marcus, speaking from the impulse of the moment.  Since he had become rich, and could afford the luxury, he frequently spoke and acted upon impulse, without regard to consequences.

Mr. Gilsum’s face suddenly changed from an aspect of moroseness to one of bewitching amiability.  He stood in the doorway, and said: 

“It’s only a matter of ten shillings, sir, for brass and screws, and little odds and ends from my shop—­the locksmith’s shop over in the next street—­you may remember it, sir.  I’m sure I don’t want to be hard on the gentleman.”

To cut short explanations, which he hated, Marcus paid the locksmith his ten shillings, and suggested that he need not wait longer.  The locksmith, having received the money, thought it incumbent upon him to apologize and explain still further, till Marcus took hold of the door, as if to close it, when he accepted the hint, and departed, mumbling an apology as he went.

The young girl, who had looked on in amazement, turned a pair of soft blue eyes toward the face of the stranger, and said: 

“Papa will thank you very much, sir.”

Marcus now had an opportunity to observe her more closely.  Her figure was slightly formed, and undersized for her apparent age of seventeen years.  Her face would have been plain, but for one peculiarity which made it charming, in his practised judgment.  This rare excellence was her complexion, which showed a perfect pink and white, without roughness, spot, or blemish, under the strong light of a noonday sun, made more dazzling by its reflection from the snow.  Marcus had never seen but one such complexion, and that was many years ago.  He looked at it in silent wonder, until the delicate bloom in the centre of her cheeks began to invade the neighboring white, and the large blue eyes drooped in confusion.

“Pardon me, my child,” said Marcus, in a gentle, reassuring voice.

She looked up, much embarrassed, and said: 

“Will you be so good as to walk up and see my poor father, sir?  He will be delighted to meet a friend, for he is very much in want of one, sir.”

“I do not know him, my child; but I should be happy to make his acquaintance.”