“I’ve made summat on you to-night, Lovatt,” said Peake, with his broad easy laugh, as he reckoned up Lovatt’s counters.  Enoch Lovatt’s principles and the prominence of his position at the Bursley Wesleyan Chapel, though they did not prevent him from playing cards at his sister-in-law’s house, absolutely forbade that he should play for money, and so it was always understood that the banker of the party should be his financier, supplying him with counters and taking the chances of gain or loss.  By this kindly and ingenious arrangement Enoch Lovatt was enabled to live at peace with his conscience while gratifying that instinct for worldliness which the weekly visit to Peake’s always aroused from its seven-day slumber into a brief activity.

“Six shillings on my own; five and fourpence on you,” said Peake.  “Lovatt, we’ve had a good night; no mistake.”  He laughed again, took out his knife, and cut a fresh cigar.

“You don’t think of your poor wife,” said Mrs Peake, “who’s lost over three shillings,” and she nudged Randolph Sneyd.

“Here, Nan,” Peake answered quickly.  “You shall have the lot.”  He dropped the eleven and fourpence into the kitty-shell, and pushed it across the table to her.

“Thank you, James,” said Mrs Peake.  “Ella, your father’s given me eleven and fourpence.”

“Oh, father!” The long girl by the fire jumped up, suddenly alert.  “Do give me half-a-crown.  You’ve no conception how hard up I am.”

“You’re a grasping little vixen, that’s what you are.  Come and give me a light.”  He gazed affectionately at her smiling flushed face and tangled hair.

When she had lighted his cigar, Ella furtively introduced her thin fingers into his waistcoat-pocket, where he usually kept a reserve of money against a possible failure of his trouser-pockets.

“May I?” she questioned, drawing out a coin.  It was a four-shilling piece.

“No.  Get away.”

“I’ll give you change.”

“Oh! take it,” he yielded, “and begone with ye, and ring for something to drink.”

“You are a duck, pa!” she said, kissing him.  The other two men smiled.

“Let’s have a tune now, Ella,” said Peake, after she had rung the bell.  The girl dutifully sat down to the piano and sang “The Children’s Home.”  It was a song which always touched her father’s heart.

Peake was in one of those moods at once gay and serene which are possible only to successful middle-aged men who have consistently worked hard without permitting the faculty for pleasure to deteriorate through disuse.  He was devoted to his colliery, and his commercial acuteness was scarcely surpassed in the Five Towns, but he had always found time to amuse himself; and at fifty-two, with a clear eye and a perfect digestion, his appreciation of good food, good wine, a good cigar, a fine horse, and a pretty woman was unimpaired.  On this night his happiness was special; he had returned