He had read the smeared epistle that Brushwood had sent in to his wife, from beginning to end. There was no mistaking its import. It stated plainly, that Mrs. Stubbs was in the last stage of disease--that the husband and children were in want--and that they only asked a little help from their rich daughter, to enable them to tide over the difficulty. Why had not Hannah sent them money for their need? She knew that she had but to ask him, to obtain any reasonable sum for the purpose. Karl von Steinberg had an affectionate nature--rather weak indeed, but gentle and kind-hearted. He could not bear to think that his wife had been wilfully guilty of such negligence and indifference. When he reached his club, he drew four five-pound banknotes from his purse, and putting them into an envelope, addressed it to Mr. Stubbs, Settlefield and wrote the pardonable fiction inside, “With Hannah’s love.” The reception of this munificent gift made a great revolution of feeling in the Stubbs’ family, whither Joe Brushwood had preceded it, with an exaggerated account of his interview with Hannah. “I sent in my note, quite respectful,” he had told them on his return, “and thought if I didn’t get a ’earty welcome, she’d at least talk friendly-like about ’er people! But not a bit of it! In she sails in a gownd like a peacock, trailing on the floor, and ‘What may be your business with me, young man?’ she says, as proud as a cat with a tin tail. ‘Lor! Hannah!’ I says, and she turns on me like a tiger, ‘Oo are you a’speakin’ to?’ she says, ‘and you’ll please to say “my Lady” when you opens your mouth in my presence?’ I did feel pretty well shut up, I can tell you!” Mrs. Stubbs, who was sitting in an arm-chair, supported by pillows, looked incredulous at this account. “Lor! Joe Brushwood,” she said, “it couldn’t never ’ave been our Hannah! You must ’ave gone to the wrong ’ouse!” At this surmise, Joe himself turned pale. “O! that’s unpossible!” he exclaimed, “for ’twas Mrs. Battleby as give me the address. Baron von Stumbug, 2000 Portland Place. I writ it down in my pocket book. And I arsked for Lady von Stumbug, and the feller as answered the door, understood me quite well. Sich a grand ’ouse, Mrs. Stubbs, as you never see--all marble and picters and statties,--and Hannah in a yaller satin gownd, with black lace like cobwebs over it, and ’er ’air--well! you did ought to ’ave seen ’er ’air--’twas a transformation scene and no mistake!” “I don’t care nothing about ’er ’air,” replied Mrs. Stubbs, “but I can’t never believe as our Hannah, as was so meek and simple-like, would denige ’er own father and mother! You must ’ave mistook ’er words! I allers said as father ought to ’ave gone, instead of you.”