He looked at her with irritable suspicion, and then said: “Did you see him give it? Did he take you and the child for beggars?... Confound his impudence!... Send Martha over to him with it.” He turned to ring the bell. “Stop!” said Dolly, quietly. “Nelly tells me that Mrs. Parrot tapped on the window to speak to her, and when she went in, she saw the gentleman, who kissed her, and gave her the shilling to buy her doll a parasol. No insult could have been intended by this.” “Oh, that was it!” exclaimed Mr. Conway, “Well, and why do you let the child keep the money? She’ll lose it. Take it from her.” “It belongs to her. She will not lose it.” “Yes, she will. Nelly, give that money to your mamma.” But Nelly doubled her fist over it, and hid her hand under the table. “Do you hear what I say?” cried Mr. Conway. “Why will you not let her keep it?” asked Dolly. “Am I master here or not?” shouted Mr. Conway. “Give that money to your mother, child!” Nelly began to whimper, terrified by the man’s voice, but loath to surrender her little treasure. He stepped up to her, whipped the little hand from under the cloth, and forcing the shilling from it, put it into his pocket. “Though I’m a beggar by my own folly,” he exclaimed, walking to the door, “I’ll not be insulted and defied by the beggars I have brought about me.” His fingers were in his pocket, and it seemed as though he would pull the money out and fling it on the table. But second thoughts prevailed; he jerked his hat on his head, and marched out of the house, banging the door after him. Dolly watched to see if he would step across to Mrs. Parrot’s; but he walked straight on. “Hush, my darling, hush!” she exclaimed, catching up the sobbing child. “Dolly shall have her parasol; I will buy it myself. Hush, my pet! Nelly’s tears break poor mamma’s heart.... Oh, John! oh, husband!” she murmured; “why did God take you from me? Why did He lead me and my little one into this misery?” Truly, it was misery, of a forlorn and hopeless kind. But you have seen the man Dolly had married at his worst. The most brutal husband is not always brutal. The drunkard is not always drunk. More colours than black and white go to the painting of a man off the stage, where corked eyebrows strike no horror, and blood-boltered cheeks prove nothing more than a neglect of soap. Mr. Conway had his soft hours, when he would shed tears, smite his breast, and call himself a fiend--having reference, by this flattering title, to nothing but his behaviour to Dolly.