‘It’s no good whatever I say,’ lamented Hewett.  ’They don’t heed me.  Why must I have children like these?  Haven’t I always done my best to teach them to be honest and good-hearted?  If I’d spent my life in the worst ways a man can, they couldn’t have turned out more worthless.  Haven’t I wished always what was right and good and true?  Haven’t I always spoke up for justice in the world?  Haven’t I done what I could, Sidney, to be helpful to them as fell into misfortune?  And now in my old age I’m only a burden, and the children as come after me are nothing but a misery to all as have to do with them.  If it wasn’t for Clara I feel I couldn’t live my time out.  She’s the one that pays me back for the love I’ve given her.  All the others—­ I can’t feel as they’re children of mine at all.’

It was a strange and touching thing that he seemed nowadays utterly to have forgotten Clara’s past.  Invariably he spoke of her as if she had at all times been his stay and comfort.  The name of his son who was dead never passed his lips, but of Clara he could not speak too long or too tenderly.

‘I can’t think what to do,’ Sidney said.  ’If I talk to her in a fault-finding way, she’ll only dislike me the more; she feels I’ve no business to interfere.’

’You’re too soft with them.  You spoil them.  Why, there’s one of them broken a pane in the kitchen to-day, end they know you’ll take it quiet, like you do everything else.’

Sidney wrinkled his brow.  These petty expenses, ever repeated, were just what made the difficulty in his budget; he winced whenever such demands encroached upon the poor weekly income of which every penny was too little for the serious needs of the family.  Feeling that if he sat and thought much longer a dark mood would seize upon him, he rose hastily.

’I shall try kindness with her.  Don’t say anything more in her hearing.’

He went to the kitchen-door, and cried cheerfully, ’My dinner ready, girls?’

Annie’s voice replied with a timorous affirmative.

‘All right; I’ll be down in a minute.’

Treading as gently as possible, he ascended the stairs and entered his bedroom.  The blind was drawn down, but sunlight shone through it and made a softened glow in the chamber.  In a little cot was sitting his child, May, rather more than a year old; she had toys about her, and was for the moment contented.  Clara lay on the bed, her face turned so that Sidney could not see it.  He spoke to her, and she just moved her arm, but gave no reply.

‘Do you wish to be left alone?’ he asked, in a subdued and troubled voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Shall I take May downstairs?’

‘If you like.  Don’t speak to me now.’

He remained standing by the bed for a minute, then turned his eyes on the child, who smiled at him.  He could not smile in return, but went quietly away.

‘It’s one of her bad days,’ whispered Hewett, who met him at the foot of the stairs.  ‘She can’t help it, poor girl!’