'Husband,' she said, and then she fell to weeping for a while and it seemed as if she could not stop her crying and sobbing--but they were tears of prayer and praise. 'Let us talk. It is yet night. The world sleeps; but the Lord is awake. Let us talk.' So we talked. 'I am heavy in my mind about that poor creature,' she began. 'And I no less, my dear.' 'We must not think that the innocent are punished with the guilty. That old man the Alderman is pulled down by his son: they lie in ruin together: but he is innocent: for this reason he has been permitted to lose his wits and now feels nothing. Jenny suffers because though she is innocent in intention, she is guilty in fact. Will, if I think of that poor creature, so good and generous and so self-denying: and of the company among whom she has lived: and of the people among whom she was born: and how she has no religion, not the least sense of religion, I think that this new business may be but the leading of the poor trembling soul to knowledge.' 'She is assured that before long she will be permitted to return.' 'Perhaps she will not be permitted to return. There is One who is higher than kings.' 'What would you do, Alice?' 'Let us ask ourselves, Will, what we are to do with our new riches. I am but a homely body, I cannot become a fine lady. As for yourself, remember, my dear, that you have been a musician, playing for your livelihood at the Dog and Duck: and you have stood your trial at the Old Bailey: and you have been in a Debtors' Prison: and your father's House is bankrupt: and your name is held in contempt where formerly it was in honour. Where will you seek your new friends? In the country? But the Quality despise a musician. In the City? They despise a musician much: prisoner for debt, more: a bankrupt, most.' 'I know not what is in your mind, Alice.' 'I am coming to it, my dear. Remember, once more, what you said to-night that we owe her all--all--all. Your life: your honour: your son's pride in his father: my life, for the agony and the shame would have killed me. Oh! Will, what can we do for her? What can we give her in return for benefits and services such as these?' 'I will give her all I have, my dear, my whole fortune, this new great fortune. I will give her everything but you, my dear, and the boy.' 'Money she does not want and it will not help her in this strait.' 'What then can we do? We have gratitude--it is hers. And our fortune, it is hers if she will take it.' 'Oh! Will, be patient with me, dear. We can give her indeed, all that we have: we can give her'--she bent over me and kissed me, and her tears fell upon my forehead--'we can give her, Will--ourselves.' 'What?' 'We can give her--ourselves. The whole of our lives. We can become her servants in grateful thanks for all that she has done for us.' 'But how, Alice, how?'