‘Well?’ said he.

‘How long, sir, may I have to think over it?’

‘Three minutes!’ (looking at his watch).  ’You’ve had two already—­that makes five.  Be a sensible woman, say Yes, and sit down to tea with me, and we’ll talk it over together; for, after tea, I shall be busy; say No’ (he hesitated a moment to try and keep his voice in the same tone), ’and I shan’t say another word about it, but pay up a year’s rent for my rooms tomorrow, and be off.  Time’s up!  Yes or no?’

‘If you please, sir—­you have been so good to little Ailsie—­’

’There, sit down comfortably by me on the sofa, and let’s have our tea together.  I am glad to find you are as good and sensible as I took you for.’

And this was Alice Wilson’s second wooing.

Mr Openshaw’s will was too strong, and his circumstances too good, for him not to carry all before him.  He settled Mrs Wilson in a comfortable house of her own, and made her quite independent of lodgers.  The little that Alice said with regard to future plans was in Norah’s behalf.

‘No,’ said Mr Openshaw.  ’Norah shall take care of the old lady as long as she lives; and, after that, she shall either come and live with us, or, if she likes it better, she shall have a provision for life—­for your sake, missus.  No one who has been good to you or the child shall go unrewarded.  But even the little one will be better for some fresh stuff about her.  Get her a bright, sensible girl as a nurse; one who won’t go rubbing her with calf’s-foot jelly as Norah does; wasting good stuff outside that ought to go in, but will follow doctors’ directions; which, as you must see pretty clearly by this time, Norah won’t; because they give the poor little wench pain.  Now, I’m not above being nesh for other folks myself.  I can stand a good blow, and never change colour; but, set me in the operating room in the infirmary, and I turn as sick as a girl.  Yet, if need were, I would hold the little wench on my knees while she screeched with pain, if it were to do her poor back good.  Nay, nay, wench! keep your white looks for the time when it comes—­I don’t say it ever will.  But this I know, Norah will spare the child and cheat the doctor, if she can.  Now, I say, give the bairn a year or two’s chance, and then, when the pack of doctors have done their best—­and, maybe, the old lady has gone—­we’ll have Norah back or do better for her.’

The pack of doctors could do no good to little Ailsie.  She was beyond their power.  But her father (for so he insisted on being called, and also on Alice’s no longer retaining the appellation of Mamma, but becoming henceforward Mother), by his healthy cheerfulness of manner, his clear decision of purpose, his odd turns and quirks of humour, added to his real strong love for the helpless little girl, infused a new element of brightness and confidence into her life; and, though her back remained the same, her general health was strengthened, and Alice—­never going beyond a smile herself—­had the pleasure of seeing her child taught to laugh.