The young man was not to be baffled thus. He contrived to meet Florence secretly, and, after a while, persuaded her to forsake her home, and unite her fortunes with his,—with the less difficulty, since that home offered but few attractions to one of her age. Her father’s indignation was extreme. All advances towards reconciliation, on the part of the newly-wedded pair, were received with a bitterness of scorn, which effectually prevented their repetition. From that time, Martin Kendrick settled down into the cold, apathetic, and solitary existence which has been described above. Gradually the love of gain blotted out from his memory the remembrance of his children, whom he never met. They had removed from the city, though he knew it not; and the total amount of interest displayed respecting them discouraged any idea they might have entertained of informing him. * * * * * “It’s a cold night,” quoth Martin to himself, as he sat before the least glimmering which could decently be called a fire in the apartment which he occupied. He cast a wistful glance towards a pile of wood which lay beside the grate. He lifted one, and poised it for a moment, glancing meanwhile at the fire, as if he was debating in his mind whether he had best place it on. He shook his head, however, as if it were too great a piece of extravagance to be thought of, and softly laid it back. He then moved his chair nearer to the fire as if satisfied that this would produce the additional warmth without the drawback of expense. It was, indeed, a cold night. The chill blasts swept with relentless rigor through the streets, sending travellers home with quickened pace, and causing the guardians of the public peace, as they stood at their appointed stations, to wrap their overcoats more closely about them. On many a hearth the fire blazed brightly, in composed defiance of the insidious visitor who shuns the abodes of opulence, but forces his unwelcome entry into the habitations of the poor. A child, thinly clad, was roaming through the streets. Every gust, as it swept along, chilled her through and through; and at length, unable to go farther, she sank down at the portal of Martin Kendrick’s dwelling. Extreme cold gave her courage; and, with trembling hand, she lifted the huge knocker. It fell from her nerveless grasp, and the unwonted sound penetrated into the room where Martin sat cowering over his feeble fire. He was startled, terrified even, as that sound came to his ears, echoing through the empty rooms in the old house. “Who can it be?—robbers?” thought he, as he walked to the door. “I will wait and see if it be repeated.” It was repeated. “Who’s there?” he exclaimed, in a somewhat tremulous voice, as he stood with his hand upon the latch. “It’s me,” said a low, shivering voice from without. “And who’s ‘me’?” “Floy,—little Floy,” was the answer. “And what do you want here at this time of night?”