Clementina was a strangely wakeful child, and he had never yet been able to steal into the room, no matter at what hour of the night, or with what degree of stealth, that she had not heard him. “That you, Boy?” she would say, her voice sounding strangely conscious in the stillness and darkness. Then, invariably, she would sit up in her little bed, and strike a match and light the candle placed beside her. Then, when at her command he would come to kiss her good-night, she would give him that swift, searching look, which he always knew was coming, and then, if satisfied, she would lie down and go quietly to sleep. As a general thing, it happened that she was satisfied, but there had been times when it was otherwise, and those occasions Rhodes remembered with such distinct unpleasantness, that they served him as valuable warnings. She had never uttered any rebuke in words, but the deep, penetrating condemnation of her concentrated gaze had made him feel, that for that moment his life was turned inside out to her, and that she saw him as he was. This was all the more painful to him, because of the fact that the child seemed to be possessed of an inherent respect for him. She advised, and even censured him at times, it is true, but always Rhodes had a sense of being deferred to, and it was a grateful feeling to the heart of such a poor devil as he. Clementina never complained of solitude, and, as a rule, she seemed to prefer these lonely evenings, spent in studying her lessons, tidying things up, sewing on buttons, cleaning spots from her father’s clothes, and doing odd jobs of mending, to the alternative of going to the theatre. Occasionally, however, she would announce that she was going with him, and at such times he never objected. Rhodes had now been a widower for more than six years, and these years had been a tolerably fair copy of his bachelor days, except that he now made his life among people of a somewhat lower grade than formerly; for they were almost exclusively third-rate actresses, dancers, concert-singers, etc. It was a life through which he would quickly have sunk very low, but for one thing--the influence of Clementina. She never preached goodness to him, nor talked religion (poor child, she had been taught little enough of either!), and yet she continually held him up to his better self, and dragged him back to it when he fell away. About this time there appeared a celebrated dancer, whose services were engaged for the entire season at the Summer-Garden concerts, and poor old Clem, for the fortieth time, imagined that the _grande passion_ of his life had come upon him.