"Mrs. Chester," he said with a curious hesitation, "what sort of a man do you consider me to be?" "I don't know any harm of you, Mr. Dumbrick." "That's neither one thing nor the other. It don't matter, though. I'd like to hear the rights of the story about Sally's baby, if you've no objection." Mrs. Chester related what she knew, and Seth Dumbrick listened thoughtfully and attentively. "And you've never since set eyes on the man who brought the child to your house?" "Never before or since, Mr. Dumbrick." "There's a mystery in it," mused Seth, "and I'm partial to mystery. Here we are at your place. May I come up?" Without waiting for permission, he pushed his way upstairs, and entered Mrs. Chester's room. In the first glance he saw the state of poverty to which she was reduced. Unceremoniously he went to the cupboard and opened it; there was no food on the shelves. Then he turned to Mrs. Chester, and fixed his great grey eyes on her so piercingly that she began to grow frightened. "You're a married woman. Where's your wedding-ring?" She placed her left hand quickly behind her. "I don't mean any harm. Where is it?" "In pawn?" "That's always the last thing to go, Mrs. Chester." Weak and sick, she sank, panting, into a chair. "Your husband's in the hospital?" "Yes," she sighed. "And you're going to take a situation in a workhouse?" "Who told you?" cried Mrs. Chester, her tears beginning to flow. "Some distance from here it is, and you'll get eighteen pound a year. And you don't mind giving three-and-sixpence a week to anyone who'll take care of Sally." "I don't know where you found out all this," sobbed Mrs. Chester, "but it's true. I've been trying all the morning to get a place for Sally--she's a handy little thing, Mr. Dumbrick--but can't find one. Everybody's full enough of trouble as it is, without wishing for more. I don't blame 'em, I'm sure, but I feel that desperate that I'm fit to make away with myself. Do you think I'd part with my child if I could possibly help it?" "I never had one," replied Seth gravely, "so I'm no judge. Mrs. Chester, I'm a lonely man, and have lived a lonely life. You know me and what I am. I'm never out of work, and I never intend to be, if I can help it. I don't set myself up as a good man, but I dare say I'd pass in a crowd. Do you see what I'm driving at?" "Not exactly, Mr. Dumbrick." "I've felt sometimes lately, when I've been alone in my cellar, as if I'd like some one to talk to, some creature like myself about me to look at. I'd as soon set fire to my place as take a woman in it, and a boy'd plague the life out of me. But a little girl, or a little girl and a baby, I wouldn't so much mind. She could make herself handy, and might grow into my ways. Now do you see what I'm driving at?" "You mean that you'd take Sally, and keep her, if I paid you three-and-sixpence a week."