"I'm very much obliged indeed!" said Mrs. Cragg. Thereupon she flounced off in a huff, and once more Dot serenely observed, "Ma-ma angly." "No, no, Dot, you mustn't say that." Cragg put the child down, kissed her, and added, "Run away to the nursery, little one." "You'm going to see that poo-ar lickle girl, dadda?" "Yes, yes; and when I come back, by-and-by, you shall hear how she is." A few minutes later Cragg was wending his way to the row of red cottages, where lay Mr. Dale. On the road thither he met one of the numerous children belonging to those cottages, a small shock-haired boy, who stopped and thrust into Cragg's hand a folded slip of paper. Cragg opened and read it: "My father is dying. He wants to see you. Pattie Dale." "I'll be there directly," Cragg said. Outside the cottage door he was met by Pattie. She had watched his approach from a window; and she looked up with grieved eyes. "He will not live long, the doctor says. He has been worse for some hours. Nothing more can be done. And he keeps asking for you. I don't know why. The doctor thinks he doesn't know what he is saying, but I—I think he does know. And we thought—I felt sure—you would come, if you knew that he wanted you." "My dear, of course I would. I would have come at once, if I had not already been on my way. I would do anything that I could for him. This is sad for you, isn't it?—poor girl!" She gave him a watery little smile, then turned back, leading him in. Upstairs the nurse met them. "Mr. Dale seems to know you are here," she said. "He must have heard your voice. He wants a few words with you alone, and I don't suppose it can make much difference now, either way—only of course the less excitement the better. He is very weak." Then Cragg found himself in the small room with the dying man, whose face was altered and fallen. The others went away. "Is the door shut? Shut it, please." Dale spoke in faint tones. "I've not much time. Pattie not here? That is right. Sit down, please. I want to say something." Cragg obeyed, much moved. "Anything you wish me to do for you?" he asked kindly. "Yes. Pattie." "You want me to care for her?" "She has no one. No friends. We are—friendless." "How is that?" Cragg put the question involuntarily, and there was an uneasy movement on the part of the sick man. "Not my fault," came slowly. "I want—if you would promise me—I want—" "Don't trouble yourself to say much. I think I understand. You want me to see that Pattie has a home. I had thought of that already. It is through me that you are like this. Not my fault, I hope, for nobody had a notion of the old mine being there; but still it is through me. I couldn't neglect your child." "You will care for her? She will have—almost nothing of her own— almost nothing. Only twenty pounds a year."