“I had till yesterday, sir.” “Where?” “At Mr. Maidstone’s shop.” “What wages had you?” “Sixpence a day.” “And you lived, all three of you, on that?” “Yes; all four of us, sir.” “What do you do at the shop?” “Please your worship,” interposed policeman James, “he was sent about his business yesterday.” “Yes,” rejoined Clare, who did not understand the phrase, “I was sent with a lady to carry her bandbox to the station.” “And when you came back, you was turned away, wasn’t you?” said James. “Yes, sir.” “What had you done?” asked the magistrate. “I don’t quite know, sir.” “A likely story!” Clare made no reply. “Answer me directly.” “Please, sir, you told me not to speak unless you asked me a question.” “I said, ‘A likely story!’ which meant, ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’” “Of course I do, sir.” “Why?” “Because it is true.” “How am I to believe that?” “I don’t know, sir. I only know I’ve got to speak the truth. It’s the person who hears it that’s got to believe it, ain’t it, sir?” “You’ve got to prove it.” “I don’t think so, sir; I never was told so; I was only told I must speak the truth; I never was told I must prove what I said.--I’ve been several times disbelieved, I know.” “I should think so indeed!” “It was by people who did not know me.” “Never by people who did know you?” “I think not, sir. I never was by the people at home.” “Ah! you could not read what they were thinking!” “Were you not believed when you were at home, sir?” The magistrate’s doubt of Clare had its source in the fact that, although now he was more careful to speak the truth than are most people, it was not his habit when a boy, and he had suffered severely in consequence. He was annoyed, therefore, at his question, set him down as a hypocritical, boastful prig, and was seized with a strong desire to shame him. “I remand the prisoner for more evidence. Take the children to the workhouse,” he said. Tommy gave a sudden full-sized howl. He had heard no good of the workhouse. “The baby is mine!” pleaded Clare. “Are you the father of it?” said the big policeman. “Yes, I think so: I saved her life.--She would have been drowned if I hadn’t looked for her when I heard the splash!” reasoned Clare, his face drawn with grief and the struggle to keep from crying. “She’s not yours,” said the magistrate. “She belongs to the parish. Take her away, James.” The big policeman came up to take her. Clare would have held her tight, but was afraid of hurting her. He did draw back from the outstretched hands, however, while he put a question or two. “Please, sir, will the parish be good to her?” he asked. “Much better than you.” “Will it let me go and see her?” he asked again, with an outbreaking sob. “You can’t go anywhere till you’re out of this,” answered the big policeman, and, not ungently, took the baby from him. “And when will that be, please?” asked Clare, with his empty arms still held out. “That depends on his worship there.”