"This is a long story, but it's pretty nearly over now. Of course I did what was possible to be done for this poor fellow; I gave him money and clothes, and sent him to the doctor, and all that; but he was very proud in all his misery, and would not accept what he called 'charity,' but insisted upon working for his living. Poor Nat, poor fellow! the drink had ruined him, mind and body--all his crisp touch, all his wonderful execution, gone, sir, gone never to return; but he could still play the fiddle very decently, better than most, at any rate; so I spoke to Wuff and some operatic people I knew, and got him playing at concerts and theatres, and that sort of thing. But it didn't last long; the drink had done its work, and he could not get on without stimulants; when he got ill again, and broke up suddenly, sending for me when he was on his death-bed, and imploring me to take care of his little girl--his little Louise. I promised readily enough, for she was a sweet little child, and I had always been fond of her; and as soon as we had buried the poor fellow, I sent the girl over to a school in Paris, intending to have her brought up as a governess; but with a splendid violinist for her father, and a first-rate opera-singer for her mother, it wasn't to be expected that she'd go in for steady respectability, though she's as good a girl as ever breathed; moreover she inherits her mother's voice, and I believe--from what I hear from friends of mine over there, who know all about this kind of thing--that she'll some day be a splendid singer, and astonish the world. So, when all these representations were made to me, I could not hold out any longer; and when Louise left school, eighteen months ago, I got her admitted as a pupil at the Conservatoire; and there she is working away, and I'm told is getting on gloriously. Was getting on gloriously, I should say, up to within the last month; but she has been very ill, poor child, and that has pulled her down, and put her back; and--that's exactly what I'm coming to. I daresay you've been horribly bored up to this point, Mr. Yeldham; but I think when I've finished, you'll say it was worth your listening to." "Only you carry out the hopes you've raised, Mr. Thacker, and you may depend upon it I won't complain," said Yeldham. "Well, I had been wondering that I had not heard from this girl. She must be sixteen or seventeen now, and she writes most capital letters. I assure you, when I'm regularly dry and stoney with business, feel as if I was stuccoed all over like, one of this girl's letters refreshes me and cheers me up, and makes me remember there is something else in the world to live for besides money-getting. I had been wondering I had not heard from Louise, when this morning a letter came. In it she told me that she had been very ill with a fever, which had completely prostrated her, and that--but I may as well read this part out to you."