"Would you have been content in his place—about a child of your own?" Cragg was puzzled how to answer. He could not make out Pattie, and he found himself saying involuntarily: "I wonder whether you are older than I have fancied?" "I was sixteen on my last birthday." "You were! Really! I have thought of you as only—well, about thirteen." "No; I am sixteen. People have often taken me for less. Old enough to be independent." And a curious smile flickered over her small face. "We must see about that. I am not sure. You would not find it so easy as you may think to make your way—unaided." "No. But people would help me. People are always so kind." "Are they?" "Except Mr. Peterson,—and he had always been kind. It was only at the last that he changed. I suppose somebody had made mischief in some way. Somebody must have made him think what was not true of father. Yes, people are kind generally. You have been kind, and yet how little you know of us! When we first came you knew nothing at all." "I hope I shall continue to be kind," Cragg said seriously. "I am sure you will. And perhaps—perhaps—in a few days—you will help me to get something to do. I should like to find work. Needlework, perhaps,—or anything. I don't mind what." Her face flushed slightly. "I want to be independent." "My dear, the feeling is most praiseworthy. But you must not be in a hurry. You are coming to us first. I told your father it should be so. You will come to us directly after the funeral." "Not the same day." "Then the day after." "You say my father wished it?" "Yes. He did wish it." "Then I will do what he wished. But only for a little while." "We shall see," Cragg answered. So far, so good, was his thought as he went home. Pattie evidently had no idea of the full extent of his undertaking with respect to herself. Just as well that she should not know at present. He would tell his wife that she was coming for a while. If Pattie were bent on working for herself, the arrangement would not have to be permanent. Cowardice seized him again, when he found himself in his wife's presence. He had meant to tell her as soon as he got in, and then he put off doing so until after tea. When tea was finished he still felt disinclined to speak, and he waited till Dot was brought in. Dot always devoted her small self to him for an hour before going to bed. With Dot on his knee he became more courageous, and Mrs. Cragg herself supplied an opening. "So they are going to have the funeral to-morrow?" "Yes; at two o'clock." "Well, it's a good thing he didn't linger on in a helpless state. Nobody could have afforded that. What's going to become of the child?" "Poo-ar lickle girl!" put in Dot appropriately. "You should say 'little,' not 'lickle,'" reproved Mrs. Cragg. "It sounds so silly." Dot hung her head. "I do say lick-karl," she asserted impressively. Now or never! Cragg knew he must speak out.