‘Perhaps you’ve been in Australia yourself, mister?’

‘I have.’

The woman paused, speculation at work in her eyes.

‘Do you know in what part of the country your son is?’ inquired the old man absently.

‘He’s wrote me two letters, an’ the last, as come more than a year ago, was from a place called Maryborough.’

The other still preserved an absent expression; his eyes travelled about the room.

‘I always said,’ pursued Mrs. Peckover, ’as it was Snowdon as put Australia into the boy’s ’ed.  He used to tell us he’d got a brother there, doin’ well.  P’r’aps it wasn’t true.’

‘Yes, it was true,’ replied the old man coldly.  ’But you haven’t told me what came to pass about the child.’

An exact report of all that Mrs. Peckover had to say on this subject would occupy more space than it merits.  The gist of it was that for less than a year she had received certain stipulated sums irregularly; that at length no money at all was forthcoming; that in the tenderness of her heart she had still entertained the child, sent her to school, privately instructed her in the domestic virtues, trusting that such humanity would not lack even its material reward, and that either Joseph Snowdon or someone akin to him would ultimately make good to her the expenses she had not grudged.

’She’s a child as pays you back for all the trouble you take, so much I will say for her,’ observed the matron in conclusion.  ’Not as it hasn’t been a little ’ard to teach her tidiness, but she’s only a young thing still.  I shouldn’t wonder but she’s felt her position a little now an’ then; it’s only natural in a growin’ girl, do what you can to prevent it.  Still, she’s willin’; that nobody can deny, an’ I’m sure I should never wish to.  Her cirkinstances has been peculiar; that you’ll understand, I’m sure.  But I done my best to take the place of the mother as is gone to a better world.  An’ now that she’s layin’ ill, I’m sure no mother could feel it more—­’

‘Ill?  Why didn’t you mention that before?’

’Didn’t I say as she was ill?  Why, I thought it was the first word I spoke as soon as you got into the ’ouse.  You can’t a noticed it, or else it was me as is so put about.  What With havin’ a burial—­’

‘Where is she?’ asked the old man anxiously.

’Where?  Why, you don’t think as I’d a sent her to be looked after by strangers?  She’s layin’ in Mrs. Hewett’s room—­that’s one o’ the lodgers—­all for the sake o’ comfort.  A better an’ kinder woman than Mrs. Hewett you wouldn’t find, not if you was to—­’

With difficulty the stranger obtained a few details of the origin and course of the illness—­details wholly misleading, but devised to reassure.  When he desired to see Jane, Mrs. Peckover assumed an air of perfect willingness, but reminded him that she had nothing save his word to prove that he had indeed a legitimate interest in the girl.