“I know, because I saw—­” she hesitated.

“Saw what?”

“The light in your window.”

“My window?”

“Yes.  The one that looks out on the garden at the back.  It was twelve o’clock on Sunday night, and on Monday night the light was gone, and I knew that you were better.”

“As it happens, you saw the light in my sister’s room.  She’s always ill.”

“Oh,” said Maggie; and her face fell with the fall of her great argument.

“Sometimes,” he said, “the light burns all night long.”

“Yes,” said Maggie, musing; “sometimes it burns all night long.  But in the room above that room, there’s a little soft light that burns all night, too.  That’s your room.”

“No, that’s my wife’s room.”

Maggie became thoughtful.  “I used to think that was where your little girl sleeps, because of the night-light.  Then your room’s next it.”  Maggie desired to know all about the blessed house that contained him.

“That’s the spare room,” he said, laughing.

“Goodness! what a lot of rooms.  Then yours is the one next the nursery, looking on the street.  Fancy!  That little room.”

Again she became thoughtful.  So did he.

“I say, Maggie, how did you know those lights burned all night?”

“Because I saw them.”

“You can’t see them.”

“Yes, you can; from the little alley that goes along at the back.”

He hadn’t thought of the alley.  Nobody ever passed that way after dark; it ended in a blind wall.

“What were you doing there at twelve o’clock at night?”

He looked for signs of shame and confusion on Maggie’s face.  But Maggie’s face was one flame of joy.  Her eyes were candid.

“Walking up and down,” she said.  “I was watching.”

“Watching?”

“Your window.”

“You mustn’t, Maggie.  You mustn’t watch people’s windows.  They don’t like it.  It doesn’t do.”

The flame was troubled; but not the lucid candour of Maggie’s eyes.  “I had to.  I thought you were ill.  I came to make sure.  I was all alone.  I didn’t let anybody see me.  And when I saw the light I was frightened.  And I came again the next night to see.  I didn’t think you’d mind.  It’s not as if I’d come to the front door, or written letters, was it?”

“No.  But you must never do that again, mind.  How did you know the house?”

Maggie hung her head.  “I saw your little girl go in there.”

“Were you ’watching’?”

“N-no.  It was an accident.”

“How did you know it was my little girl?”

“I saw you walking with her, one Saturday, in the Park.  It was an accident—­really.  I was taking my work to that lady who buys from me—­Mrs.  ’Anny.”

“I see.”

“You’re not angry with me, Mr. Magendy?”

“Of course not.  What made you think I was?”

“Your face.  You would be angry if I followed you.  But I wouldn’t do such a thing.  I’ve never followed any one—­never.  And I wouldn’t do it now, not if I was paid,” she protested.