After her father’s death, thrown entirely upon her own resources, she had determined to live—to live on and toil and struggle, trusting that some day, when the cruel prison-gates rolled back, George might not be alone in the world, but might have at least one faithful, loving heart to look to for support when he began the terrible struggle which would lie before him. Shakspeare Jarvis noticed the tears as they fell streaming on the work, and he was wise enough to turn and look out of the window and hum a tune, just as if he hadn’t the slightest idea what Mrs. Smith was doing. He hadn’t looked out of window a minute before he uttered a little cry of surprise and joy. A cab had drawn up to the door with four heavy boxes on the roof. ‘Oh, Mrs. Smith,’ cried the lad, half beside himself, ‘here they are!’ ‘Who?’ ‘Why, mother and father. Hullo! they’ve got a gentleman with them. Perhaps he’s the new tragedian. Lor ‘ain’t he popped into the house quick!’ Mrs. Smith rose and folded her work up. ‘I’m going to my own room, Shakspeare dear,’ she said; ‘I’ll come and see your mother presently.’ Bess ran out before Shakspeare could reply. She didn’t want strangers to come in and see her red eyes. Hardly had she beat a retreat before Mrs. Jarvis, having duly embraced granny below, came panting up the stairs, making them creak and tremble, and, pushing open the door, she had Shakspeare clasped in her motherly arms, squeezing him so vigorously that his ‘God bless you, mother!’ came out in spasmodic jerks, a syllable at a time. Then there was father to shake hands with, and then Shakspeare, looking up, saw a young man, with a shaved facc and a curious, frightened look on it, standing at the doorway. He had on a long overcoat that Shakspeare knew was his father’s, and when he, with instinctive politeness, took his hat off, Shakspeare’s quick eye noticed that his hair was closely cropped. Mrs. Jarvis noticed the look. ‘This is a friend of ours, Shakspeare, my boy, that we met on the road. He’s going to lodge with us for a bit.’ ‘How do you do, sir?’ said Shakspeare, holding out his hand. The man took the proffered hand and shook it gently, as if he were ashamed or afraid of it. Shakspeare couldn’t make him out at all. ‘Where’s the guardjen hangel?’ asked Mrs. Jarvis, looking round. ‘I must thank her for all she’s done for the boy.’ ‘She’s gone upstairs, mother. She would go.’ ‘We’ll have her down,’ cried Mrs. Jarvis, in her quick, impetuous way; but before she could move to call up the stairs, there was a gentle knock at the door. ‘I beg your pardon, I left some of my work, ’said Mrs. Smith. ‘I—— ‘GEORGE!’ ‘BESS!’ In a moment, with a wild cry of mutual recognition, the strange gentleman and Mrs. Smith were locked in each other’s arms, while the Jarvis family looked on in blank astonishment.