’He was a good player, was Mr. Trent; but not better than somebody else we know of, eh, Mr. Hackroyd?’

‘Now don’t you go pervertin’ my judgment with flattery, ma’am,’ said the old man, looking pleased for all that.  ’Matthew Trent was Matthew Trent, an’ Lambeth ’ll never know another like him.  He was made o’ music!  When did you hear any man with a tenor voice like his?  He made songs, too, Mr. Ackroyd—­words, music, an’ all.  Why, Thyrza sings one of ’em still.’

‘But how does she remember it?’ Ackroyd asked with much interest.  ‘He died when she was a baby.’

’Yes, yes, she don’t remember it of her father.  It was me as taught her it, to be sure, as I did most o’ the other songs she knows.’

‘But she wasn’t a baby either,’ put in Mrs. Bower.  ’She was four years; an’ Lydia was four years older.’

‘Four years an’ two months,’ said Mr. Boddy, nodding with a laugh.  ’Let’s be ac’rate, Mrs. Bower, ma’am.  Thirteen year ago next fourteenth o’ December, Mr. Ackroyd.  There’s a deal happened since then.  On that day I had my shop in the Cut, and I had two legs like other mortals.  Things wasn’t doing so bad with me.  Why, it’s like yesterday to remember.  My wife she come a-runnin’ into the shop just before dinner-time.  “There’s a boiler busted at Walton’s,” she says, “an’ they say as Mr. Trent’s killed.”  It was Walton’s, the pump-maker’s, in Ground Street.’

‘It’s Simpson & Thomas’s now,’ remarked Mrs. Bower.  ’Why, where Jim Candle works, you know, Mr. Hackroyd.’

Luke nodded, knowing the circumstance.  The whole story was familiar to him, indeed; but Mr. Boddy talked on in an old man’s way for pleasure in the past.

‘So it is, so it is.  Me an’ my wife took the little ’uns to the ’Orspital.  He knew ’em, did poor Mat, but he couldn’t speak.  What a face he had!  Thyrza was frighted and cried; Lyddy just held on hard to my hand, but she didn’t cry.  I don’t remember to a’ seen Lyddy cry more than two or three times in my life; she always hid away for that, when she couldn’t help herself. bless her!’

‘Lydia grows more an’ more like her father,’ said Mrs. Bower.

’She does, ma’am, she does.  I used to say as she was like him, when she sat in my shop of a night and watched the people in and out.  Her eyes was so bright-looking, just like Mat’s.  Eh, there wasn’t much as the little ’un didn’t see.  One day—­how my wife did laugh!—­she looks at me for a long time, an’ then she says:  “How is it, Mr. Boddy,” she says, “as you’ve got one eyelid lower than the other?” It’s true as I have a bit of a droop in the right eye, but it’s not so much as any one ’ud notice it at once.  I can hear her say that as if it was in this room.  An’ she stood before me, a little thing that high.  I didn’t think she’d be so tall.  She growed wonderful from twelve to sixteen.  It’s me has to look up to her now.’

A customer entered the shop, and Mrs. Bower went out.