“What a beautiful piece of silver!” he exclaimed, with a grin of satisfaction. “Well, you _are_ a gentleman! When you come again, sir, ask for me--my name is Maybee: everybody here knows Josh Maybee, anything I can do for you _in_ the prison I will: out of it, you know, is not at present in my line. God bless you, sir! good day--oh! stay, you had better knock and see whether Mr. Wilton is in his room. If not, I’ll run into the ground, and hunt him up.” Flora tapped gently at the door, but there was no response. She turned the handle of the lock gently, and opened it a little way. She looked into the apartment with a throbbing heart. Upon a bed she saw seated her father--the very picture of desolation and woe. His head was bowed almost to his knees, and his two hands were spread open over his forehead. He seemed unconscious of everything but the intense anguish under the influence of which his body was swaying to and fro. Flora ran into the room: she sank upon her knees at his feet: she drew gently his hands from before his eyes, and twined her arms about him with a sweet tenderness. “Father, dear father!” she said, “look up: see, your own Flo’ has come to you--to be with you--to share your prison--to tend you, and to be a comfort to you as she was at home. Look at me--speak to me, father dear.” With a startled cry, the old man looked up, as if suddenly roused out of a dream of gloom and horror into a paradise of sunshine. He caught Flora’s soft cheeks between his withered hands, and gazed upon her young, bright, lovely face with an expression of passionate joy lighting up his wrinkled, pallid, grief-furrowed features. “Flo’!” he cried, hysterically, “Flo’! Flo’! my--my Flo’, not dead, not consumed! my own Flo, not lost to me for ever! Oh, beneficent Creator! I can bear all now: my sorrows are assuaged. Come what come may, I care not, for my child is spared to me. To my heart, my darling!” The old man drew her to his breast, and pressed her convulsively there, sobbing, as he did so, like a child. Hal, with water glittering in his eyes, turned his face from them, and looked out upon the bustling noisy groups in the racket ground beneath. Shabby Josh Maybee made an effort to clear his throat, as if he had swallowed a cobweb, and felt that, in spite of all his economic resolutions, at least twopence of the half-crown would instantly be melted into beer.