“Oh, I expect to be paid back some time.” “I’m sure you will. We’ll try to keep life in the craythur, though it’s little he enjoys it.” “Perhaps he enjoys it as much in his way as you or I.” “Shure it’s little I’d enjoy if I lived like him.” “I agree with you, Mrs. Hogan. But I must be going.” About three o’clock there was a knock at Mrs. Hogan’s door. A woman of thirty presented herself. “Shure, and it’s I that am glad to see you, Mrs. Barclay,” said the hospitable widow. “I haven’t set eyes on you since you went over to live in Jersey City.” “No, I don’t often get over here. Today I had to bring clothes to a customer, and thought I’d come and see you.” The visitor was Ellen Barclay, whom a strange chance--or was it Providence?--had brought unwittingly to the poor home of her husband’s father. CHAPTER XXVI. ELLEN BARCLAY’S DISCOVERY. Mrs. Barclay had only experienced a feeling of relief when her husband failed to return to her. She had grown accustomed to taking care of herself and the children without him, and his presence seemed likely only to impose upon her an additional burden. Though she earned her living in a humble way, she was fairly educated, and could sew neatly, but a brief trial with the needle satisfied her that it would be quite impossible to obtain the comforts of life for three persons in that way. So she had mastered her pride, and entered the lists as a laundress. “And how are the children, Mrs. Barclay?” asked Mrs. Hogan. “They are both well, thank God.” “And do you never hear anything of their father?” Mrs. Barclay’s face clouded. “Yes,” she answered, “he came home a few days since, but only stayed one day.” “Didn’t he bring you any money then?” “No; he borrowed some from me.” “It’s a shame, so it is, in a great, strapping man like him to leave you to work for the poor children.” Mrs. Hogan had never seen Mr. Barclay, or she would have recognized him in the man whom she helped drive away from his father’s room, and was utterly ignorant of the relationship between him and the old man whom she was nursing. “I don’t know but it’s wrong,” said Ellen, “but I believe I should be happy if I thought he would never come again. He has only brought me trouble, and I dread his influence upon the children; we are better off without him. But how are you getting along yourself, Mrs. Hogan?” “I’ve no cause to complain,” answered the Irish widow. “I’m well, and Mike and I pick up a living. Just now I’m taking care of a sick man in the room across the entry. It’s an ould man--a kind of miser he is, I surmise--and his name is the same as your own, Mrs. Barclay.” The name of Barclay is not an uncommon one, but this statement seemed to produce a strong impression on Mrs. Hogan’s visitor. “An old man named Barclay?” she repeated. “Yes.” “How old, should you think?” “I don’t know, but he’s all dried up, and wrinkled. He may be siventy.” “May I see him?” asked the visitor, eagerly.