'The heart knows its own bitterness, De Fleuri--and finds it enough, I dare say.' The weaver was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, there was a touch of tenderness in his respect. 'Will you go and see my poor Katey, sir?' 'Would she like to see me?' 'It does her good to see you. I never let that fellow go near her. He may worry me as he pleases; but she shall die in peace. That is all I can do for her.' 'Do you still persist in refusing help--for your daughter--I don't mean for yourself?' Not believing in God, De Fleuri would not be obliged to his fellow. Falconer had never met with a similar instance. 'I do. I won't kill her, and I won't kill myself: I am not bound to accept charity. It's all right. I only want to leave the whole affair behind; and I sincerely hope there's nothing to come after. If I were God, I should be ashamed of such a mess of a world.' 'Well, no doubt you would have made something more to your mind--and better, too, if all you see were all there is to be seen. But I didn't send that bore away to bore you myself. I'm going to see Katey.' 'Very well, sir. I won't go up with you, for I won't interfere with what you think proper to say to her.' 'That's rather like faith somewhere!' thought Falconer. 'Could that man fail to believe in Jesus Christ if he only saw him--anything like as he is?' Katey lay in a room overhead; for though he lacked food, this man contrived to pay for a separate room for his daughter, whom he treated with far more respect than many gentlemen treat their wives. Falconer found her lying on a wretched bed. Still it was a bed; and many in the same house had no bed to lie on. He had just come from a room overhead where lived a widow with four children. All of them lay on a floor whence issued at night, by many holes, awful rats. The children could not sleep for horror. They did not mind the little ones, they said, but when the big ones came, they were awake all night. 'Well, Katey, how are you?' 'No better, thank God.' She spoke as her father had taught her. Her face was worn and thin, but hardly death-like. Only extremes met in it--the hopelessness had turned through quietude into comfort. Her hopelessness affected him more than her father's. But there was nothing he could do for her. There came a tap at the door. 'Come in,' said Falconer, involuntarily. A lady in the dress of a Sister of Mercy entered with a large basket on her arm. She started, and hesitated for a moment when she saw him. He rose, thinking it better to go. She advanced to the bedside. He turned at the door, and said, 'I won't say good-bye yet, Katey, for I'm going to have a chat with your father, and if you will let me, I will look in again.' As he turned he saw the lady kiss her on the forehead. At the sound of his voice she started again, left the bedside and came towards him. Whether he knew her by her face or her voice first, he could not tell. 'Robert,' she said, holding out her hand.