“P.S.--IMPORTANT. Ever since I left London I have been tormented with the recollection of poor Polly's baby. She put him out to nurse with the Mrs. Jupe you heard of, and that person put him out to somebody else. While the mother lived I had no business to interfere, but I can't help thinking of the motherless mite now and wondering what has become of him. I suppose that like Jeshurun he waxeth fat and kicketh by this time, yet it would be the act of a man and a clergyman if anybody would take up my neglected duty and make it his business to see that there is somebody to love the poor child. Mrs. Jupe's address is 5a, The Little Turnstile, going from Holborn into Lincoln's Inn Fields.” VIII. It was on a Saturday morning that John Storm received Glory's letter, and on the evening of the same day he set out in search of Mrs. Jupe's. The place was not easy to find, and when he discovered it at length he felt a pang at the thought that Glory herself had lived in this dingy burrowing. As he was going up to the door of the little tobacco shop a raucous voice within was saying, “That's what's doo on the byeby, and till you can py up you needn't be a-kemmin' 'ere no more.” At the next moment a young woman crossed him on the threshold. She was a little slender thing, looking like a flower that has been broken by the wet. He recognised her as the girl who had nursed the baby in Cook Lane on the day of his first visit to Soho. She was crying, and to hide her swollen eyes she dropped her head at passing, and he saw her faded ribbons and soiled straw hat. A woman of middle age behind the counter was curtsying to his clerical attire, and a little girl at the door of an inner room was looking at him out of the corner of her eyes, with head aslant. “Father Storm, I think, sir. Come in and set you down, sir.--Mind the shop, Booboo.--My 'usband 'as told me about ye, sir. 'You'll know 'im at onct, Lidjer,' 'e sez, siz 'e.--No, 'e ain't 'ome from the club yet, but 'e might be a-kemmin' in any time now, sir.” John Storm had seated himself in the little dark parlour, and was looking round and thinking of Glory. “No matter; my business is with you, Mrs. Jupe,” he answered, and at that the twinkling eyes and fat cheeks, which had been doing their best to smile, took on a look of fear. “Wot's the metter?” she asked, and she closed the door to the shop. “Nothing, I trust, my good woman,” and then he explained his errand. Mrs. Jupe listened attentively and seemed to be asking herself who had sent him. “The poor young mother is dead now, as you may know, and----” “But the father ain't,” said the woman sharply, “and, begging your parding, sir, if 'e wants ter know where the byeby is 'e can come 'isself and not send sembody else!” “If the child is well, my good woman, and well cared for----” “It _is_ well keered for, and it's gorn to a pusson I can trust.” “Then what have you got to conceal? Tell me where it is, and----”