Jessie shook her head. She had ceased to look at their visitor; instead, she looked at his boots, and her cheeks grew red. "I thought I would like to see if you were still here." "Very good of you, I'm sure." It was not meant ironically, it was solely addressed to the blue suit and brown boots, but it nearly reduced the wearer of these awe-inspiring clothes to tears. For the moment, in the clutch of the past, with associations laying gripping hands on him and with his curious faculty of responding to the outward call, Aston House and the Astons became suddenly a faint blurred impression to Christopher, less real and tangible than these worn, sordid surroundings. Had anyone just then demanded his name he would undoubtedly have responded "Hibbault." He felt confused and wretched, alive to the fact that little Jim Hibbault had neither people nor home nor relations in the world, if these once kindly women had no welcome for him. "I heard you call Jim," he hazarded at last, in an extremity of disconcerted shyness. Mrs. Sartin eyed the four-year-old nestling in her apron and pulled him from cover. "Yes, that be Jim. We called 'im Jim arter you. He was born arter you an' your ma went away." He longed to ask after Marley of unhappy memory, but the possibilities were too apparent for him to venture, so silence again fell over them. At this precise juncture of affairs a shrill whistle was heard ascending the stairway, growing momentarily louder and louder till it became earsplitting in intensity as it arrived on landing No. 6. The author of it pulled open the door and the whistle tailed off into a faint "phew" at sight of the embarrassed group. The new-comer was a thin-faced lad with light sandy hair cropped close to his square head. He had light, undetermined eyes that were keen and lively. Christopher had beaten him in the matter of size, but there were latent possibilities in his ill-developed form. Christopher sprang up and rushed forward, then suddenly stopped. "Ullo, mother, didn't know as 'ow you 'ad swell company this arternoon. I'd 'ave put on my best suit and topper," he grinned affably as he deposited on the floor a big basket he carried. "Oh, I say, Sam--don't you know me either?" began poor Christopher. He wheeled round, stared hard, and a broad smile of recognition spread over his face. "Why, if it ain't Jim," he cried and seized his hand with a fervour that set Christopher aglowing and strangely enough set him free from the clinging shadow of his lost identity. _This_ was tangible flesh and blood and of the real authentic present. "Well, I'm blowed," ejaculated Sam, stepping back to look at his erstwhile companion, "to think of you turning up again such a toff. No need to ask what sort of luck came _your_ way. My. Ain't 'e a swell, just."