Chapter LXI. A WALK WITH CONSEQUENCES. Clare had been in the bank more than a year, and not yet had Mr. Shotover discovered why he did not quite trust him. Had Clare known he did not, he would have wondered that he trusted him with such a precious thing as his little Ann. But was his child very precious to Mr. Shotover? When a man’s heart is in his business, that is, when he is set on making money, some precious things are not so precious to him as they might be--among the rest, the living God and the man’s own life. He would pass Clare and the child without even a nod to indicate approval, or a smile for the small woman. He had, I presume, sufficient regard for the inoffensive little thing to be content she should be happy, therefore did not interfere with what his clerks counted so little to the honour of the bank. But although, as I have said, he still doubted Clare, true eyes in whatever head must have perceived that the child was in charge of an angel. The countenance of Clare with Ann in his arms, was so peaceful, so radiant of simple satisfaction, that surely there were some in that large town who, seeing them, thought of the angels that do alway behold the face of the Father in heaven. One evening in the early summer, when they had resumed their walks after five o’clock, they saw, in a waste place, where houses had been going to be built for the last two years, a number of caravans drawn up in order. A rush of hope filled the heart of Clare: what if it should be the menagerie he knew so well! And, sure enough, there was Mr. Halliwell superintending operations! But if Glum Gunn were about, he might find it awkward with the child in his arms! Gunn might not respect even her! Besides he ought to ask leave to take her! He would carry her home first, and come again to see his third mother and all his old friends, with Pummy and the lion and the rest of the creatures. Little Ann was eager to know what those curious houses on wheels were. Clare told her they were like her Noah’s ark, full of beasts, only real, live beasts, not beasts made of bits of stick. She became at once eager to see them--the more eager that her contempt of things like life that wouldn’t come alive had been growing stronger ever since she threw her doll out of the window. Clare told her he could not take her without first asking leave. This puzzled her: Clare was her highest authority. “But if _you_ take me?” she said. “Your papa and mamma might not like me to take you.” “But I’m yours!” “Yes, you’re mine--but not so much,” he added with a sigh, “as theirs!” “Ain’t I?” she rejoined, in a tone of protesting astonishment mingled with grief, and began to wriggle, wanting to get down.