‘You find it a sad tale,’ Cheeseman proceeded.  ’Why, so it is, dear ladies.  If ever I had owned a ten-pound note, over and above the price of a loaf of bread and a night’s lodging, it should have been put aside with the name of James Hood written on the back of it, and somehow I’d have found him out.  And I say the same thing now.  Don’t think, Mrs. Hood, that I’m pleading my poverty as a way of asking you to forgive the debt.  The debt shall be paid; be assured of that.  If I can only get to London, there’s a prospect before me; I have a project which I explained to my old friend yesterday.  You shall have the money, and, what’s more, you shall have interest—­four per cent. per annum.  Oh yes, you shall.  Only let me somehow get to London.’

The gate sounded again.

‘Emily,’ exclaimed Mrs. Hood, ‘there’s your father!’

She was pale, and the hand with which she pointed could not steady itself.

‘Mother,’ said the girl, just above her breath, ‘go!  He is coming in!’

Mrs. Hood rose and left the room.  Cheeseman could not but observe that some strange agitation possessed them both.  Possibly he explained it by the light of his own conscience.  He sat, smiling at Emily rather uneasily.  Then, seeing that there was likely to be a delay before Hood entered, he bent forward to speak confidentially.

’Miss Hood, I see it in your face, you’re as kind and warm-hearted as your father is, and that’s saying much.  You won’t think hardly of a poor fellow who oftener misses a dinner than gets one?  Every word I’ve said to you’s as true as the light of heaven, And my only chance is to get to London.  I’ve made an invention, and I feel sure I know a man who will buy it of me.  It took my last farthing to get here from Hebsworth.  You don’t think hardly of me?  I don’t drink, on my word I don’t; it’s sheer hard luck.  Ah, if I had a home like this!  It ’ud be like living in the garden of Eden.  Well, well!’

The door opened, and Hood came in, followed by his wife.  He was laughing, laughing loudly; the voice was so unlike his that this alone would have caused Emily to gaze at him in astonishment.

‘So you’ve looked us up!’ he exclaimed, holding out his hand.  ’Why, you couldn’t have done better; I was sorry afterwards I hadn’t asked you.  My wife tells me you’ve had dinner; you won’t mind sitting by whilst I eat?  And what do you think of Emily, eh?  Grown a little since you saw her last—­ha, ha!  So you’ve made up your mind to go to London?  Emily had dinner?  Why, of course you have; I was forgetting.  Baked potatoes!  Remember my old weakness for them baked, Cheeseman?  We used to buy ’em in the street at night, halfpenny apiece, eh?  Old man with one arm, remember?  We used to hear him coming when he was half a mile off; what a voice!  And the man who sold peas; remember him?  “All ’ot!  All ’ot!” We were lads then, eh, Cheeseman?  Emily, just a mouthful, with butter?  Let me tempt you.  No?—­What train did you come by?’