She paused and reflected a little, and then said—­

“His face was very large and pale, and it was looking upwards:  it seemed very angry, I thought, but maybe it was angry from pain; and sometimes one side of it used to twitch and tremble for a minute, and then to grow quite still again; and all the time he was speaking to me, he never looked at me once, but always kept his face and eyes turned upwards; but his voice was very soft, and he called me little Fanny, and gave me this pound to buy toys with; so I was not so frightened in a little time, and then he sent a long message to you, papa, and told me if I forgot it he would beat me; but I knew he was only joking, so that did not frighten me either.”

“And what was the message, my girl?” I asked, patting her pretty head with my hand.

“Now, let me remember it all,” she said, reflectively; “for he told it to me twice.  He asked me if there was a good bedroom at the top of the house, standing by itself—­and you know there is, so I told him so; it was exactly the kind of room that he described.  And then he said that his friend would pay two hundred pounds a-year for that bedroom, his board and attendance; and he told me to ask you, and have your answer when he should next meet me.”

“Two hundred pounds!” ejaculated my poor little wife; “why that is nearly twice as much as we expected.”

“But did he say that his friend was sick, or very old; or that he had any servant to be supported also?” I asked.

“Oh! no; he told me that he was quite able to take care of himself, and that he had, I think he called it, an asthma, but nothing else the matter; and that he would give no trouble at all, and that any friend who came to see him, he would see, not in the house, but only in the garden.”

“In the garden!” I echoed, laughing in spite of myself.

“Yes, indeed he said so; and he told me to say that he would pay one hundred pounds when he came here, and the next hundred in six months, and so on,” continued she.

“Oh, ho! half-yearly in advance—­better and better,” said I.

“And he bid me say, too, if you should ask about his character, that he is just as good as the master of the house himself,” she added; “and when he said that, he laughed a little.”

“Why, if he gives us a hundred pounds in advance,” I answered, turning to my wife, “we are safe enough; for he will not find half that value in plate and jewels in the entire household, if he is disposed to rob us.  So I see no reason against closing with the offer, should it be seriously meant—­do you, dear?”

“Quite the contrary, love,” said she.  “I think it most desirable—­indeed, most providential.”

“Providential! my dear little bigot!” I repeated, with a smile.  “Well, be it so.  I call it lucky merely; but, perhaps, you are happier in your faith, than I in my philosophy.  Yes, you are grateful for the chance that I only rejoice at.  You receive it as a proof of a divine and tender love—­I as an accident.  Delusions are often more elevating than truth.”