“I am very fond of children. Will this little girl come and see me here sometimes?” “Ay, that she will, sir. Won’t you, Nelly?” “Det.” “How old are you, Nelly?” “Four.” “Who gave you that doll?” “Mamma.” “You will bring dolly to see me, and we will have tea, all three of us. What have I got here? A bright shilling! That will buy dolly a parasol!” No words can describe the tone his voice took as he spoke. “What do you say to the gentleman for this beautiful present?” cried Mrs. Parrot. “Tanks,” said the child, putting the doll on the floor to examine the money with both hands. “Oh, here comes your mamma!” said Mrs. Parrot. “Make your reverence to the gentleman ... there’s a dear; pick up dolly ... that’s right.” She took Nelly’s hand and ran with her out of the room. The mother, standing at her gate on the other side of the road, looking up and down the road, caught sight of Mrs. Parrot and the child, and crossed over to them. They remained opposite Holdsworth’s window talking, while he, shrinking against the wall, peered at them through the muslin curtain. The five years which had passed since he had seen his wife had worked but a very little change in her. There was more womanly fulness in her form; and this was about all those five years had done for her. Her face was still as youthful as when Holdsworth had last looked on it, her eyes still possessed their deep and delicate tint, the hair its richness and lustre, the mouth its sweetness, the whole face that almost infantine expression, conveyed by soft shadowy lines and the archness of the pencilled eyebrows, which made it beautiful in repose, more beautiful yet in sorrow. But, young and fair as she seemed, there was a deep-rooted care in her face which, without qualifying its freshness, yet mingled in her smile, and lived in her eyes, and fixed a wistful look on her, such as would be seen in one who lingers long, long waiting for the summons to depart which no day brings. Her dress was shabby, her gloves old; but her beauty made even her faded apparel, cut after the unbecoming fashion then in vogue, picturesque. She wore a white crape handkerchief over her bare shoulders, and a bonnet-shaped hat, ornamented with a dark feather, which, drooping over her back, imparted a peculiar vividness to the light, sheeny gold of her hair. Strained as his ears were, Holdsworth could not hear her voice, though Mrs. Parrot’s kindly cackle was audible enough. It was manifest that they exchanged mere commonplace civilities; and presently Mrs. Parrot dropped a courtesy, and the mother and child walked slowly away. Holdsworth watched them with just such a look in his eyes as had been in them when, racked with torture in the open boat, he had cast glances full of passionate despair round the horizon for the ship that was to rescue him. He saw the little girl hold up her shilling, whereupon the mother stopped and looked back, then continued her walk and passed out of sight. CHAPTER XXVI.