Morton, as well as he could, sought to explain to Simon the peculiarities in Fanny’s mental constitution. He urged on him the necessity of providing for her careful instruction, and Simon promised to send her to the best school the neighbourhood could afford; but, as the old man spoke, he dwelt so much on the supposed fact that Fanny was William’s daughter, and with his remorse, or affection, there ran so interwoven a thread of selfishness and avarice, that Morton thought it would be dangerous to his interest in the child to undeceive his error. He, therefore,--perhaps excusably enough--remained silent on that subject. Gawtrey had placed with the superior of the convent, together with an order to give up the child to any one who should demand her in his true name, which he confided to the superior, a sum of nearly L300., which he solemnly swore had been honestly obtained, and which, in all his shifts and adversities, he had never allowed himself to touch. This sum, with the trifling deduction made for arrears due to the convent, Morton now placed in Simon’s hands. The old man clutched the money, which was for the most in French gold, with a convulsive gripe: and then, as if ashamed of the impulse, said-- “But you, sir--will any sum--that is, any reasonable sum--be of use to you?” “No! and if it were, it is neither yours nor mine--it is hers. Save it for her, and add to it what you can.” While this conversation took place, Fanny had been consigned to the care of Mrs. Boxer, and Philip now rose to see and bid her farewell before he departed. “I may come again to visit you, Mr. Gawtrey; and I pray Heaven to find that you and Fanny have been a mutual blessing to each other. Oh, remember how your son loved her!” “He had a good heart, in spite of all his sins. Poor William!” said Simon. Philip Morton heard, and his lip curled with a sad and a just disdain. If when, at the age of nineteen, William Gawtrey had quitted his father’s roof, the father had then remembered that the son’s heart was good,--the son had been alive still, an honest and a happy man. Do ye not laugh, O ye all-listening Fiends! when men praise those dead whose virtues they discovered not when alive? It takes much marble to build the sepulchre--how little of lath and plaster would have repaired the garret! On turning into a small room adjoining the parlour in which Gawtrey sat, Morton found Fanny standing gloomily by a dull, soot-grimed window, which looked out on the dead walls of a small yard. Mrs. Boxer, seated by a table, was employed in trimming a cap, and putting questions to Fanny in that falsetto voice of endearment in which people not used to children are apt to address them. “And so, my dear, they’ve never taught you to read or write? You’ve been sadly neglected, poor thing!” “We must do our best to supply the deficiency,” said Morton, as he entered.