"It goes to my heart to refuse you. If I were free I would come and serve you, not only for the sake of the money, but because mamma loved you so dearly." "There, there; I can bear no more," returned the invalid impatiently. Queenie took the hint and rose. "I am sorry if I have tired you. May I come again?" "Yes; come again to-morrow at the same time. Tell Runciman that he is to bring the business letters here in the morning instead of Smiler. Please ring the bell for Mrs. Morton, and be careful to close the door very carefully, as the least noise jars on me. What are you waiting for now, child?" "I only thought I should like to shake hands with you, sir." "There, good-night," was the brusque response; but the hand was cold and shaking, as the warm girlish one closed round it. "Good-night, and thank you for Emmie," returned Queenie, brightly. Caleb sat up and rubbed his eyes drowsily as the girl entered. "How long you have been, Miss Queenie, dear! What has he been saying to you?" "Hush! I will tell you as we go along. He is very ill--dying, Caleb, and it is very, very sad to see him. Look what he has given me," opening her hand and showing the crisp bank-note; "I think he meant it as a sort of return for bringing me out in the wet, but of course I shall not keep it; it is all for Emmie." Queenie's visits to Mr. Calcott became almost a daily recurrence. It soon became a rule for Caleb to fetch her when lessons were over and Emmie was asleep, to sit with the invalid an hour before he retired to rest. Miss Titheridge had probably received some private hint from Caleb, for she made no objection to these frequent absences; but, on the contrary, encouraged them by gracious enquiries after Mr. Calcott's health when she encountered Queenie. The girl soon grew used to these visits. Mr. Calcott, it is true, never varied in his manner. He still received her brusquely, and his remarks were as pungent and sarcastic as ever, with a strange bitterness that often brought tears to her eyes; but still, in a vague, uncertain sort of way, she felt he liked to have her there beside him. Once or twice she fancied his eyes had brightened at her approach, even while he scolded her querulously for being late. He accepted her services reluctantly, and often found fault with her for feminine awkwardness. Her efforts never gave him pleasure. No word of commendation crossed his lips, no thanks for the unselfishness that brought her out evening after evening, after a hard day's work, to minister to a discontented old man; and yet Queenie felt rewarded if his eyes turned wistfully to the door as she entered, or a sigh of relief betrayed that his loneliness was at an end. "Master has been that restless that Morton can do nothing to please him," Gurnel informed her once when she was unusually late. Queenie smiled and quickened her steps; she knew what she had to expect.