Christopher felt his heart go thump. He had almost forgotten Jessie, yet Jessie had been more to him than Martha in other days. It was Jessie who had taken him for walks, carried him up the steep stairs on her back, shared sweets with him, cuffed her brother Sam when they fought, and had finally taken little Jim Hibbault back to his mother when the great clock in the distance struck six,--Jessie, who at eleven had been a complete little mother and was at sixteen a tall, lanky, untidy girl who had inherited the curling pins of her mother and whose good-natured, not ill-looking face was not improved thereby. She came to the doorway and stood looking over her mother's arm at Christopher. "Ever seed 'im afore?" demanded Mrs. Sartin. "Well I never, if it ain't Jimmy!" cried Jessie, beaming, and Christopher could have embraced her if it were in accordance with the custom of his years, and he felt less inclined to bolt down the stairs out of reach of his adventure. Neither of the two women expressed any pleasure at his appearance. Mrs. Sartin accepted her daughter's recognition of their visitor as sufficient evidence it was not a hoax, and asked Christopher in. The room, though the window was open, smelt just as stuffy as of old, and a familiar litter of toys and odds and ends strewed the floor. Christopher missed the big tea-tray and Britannia metal teapot, but the sofa with broken springs was still there, covered as it had ever been with the greater part of the family wardrobe. Christopher sat in the armchair, and Mrs. Sartin, having plumped the baby into its chair, sat down by the door. The small Jimmy pulled at her apron. Jessie leant against the wall and giggled. No one said anything. Christopher began to wish he had not come. "I never could remember the name of this place," he began at last, desperately. "I just came on it by accident to-day, and remembered everything all at once." "Shilla Buildings, that's what it's called," said Mrs. Sartin nodding her head. "Block 7, C. Door." Silence again. A strict sense of etiquette prevented either of the feminine side of the company from uttering the question burning on their tongues. "I did see Sam once, a long time ago," Christopher struggled on, "but I could not catch him." He got red and embarrassed again. "'Ows your Ma?" asked Mrs. Sartin at last. "She's dead," explained Christopher very gravely, "five years ago now--more." "Lor'. To think of it. I never thought she was one to live long. And she went back to her friends after all, I suppose." It was not a question: it was only a statement to be confirmed or contradicted or ignored as the hearer liked. "She died in the Union at Whitmansworth," said Christopher bluntly. "I lived there afterwards and then someone adopted me. Mr. Aymer Aston, son of Mr. Aston. Perhaps you know the name." Mrs. Sartin appeared to consult an imaginary visiting list. "No, I can't say as I do. Do you, Jessie?"