And Mr. Sylvester? If any one had seen the abandon with which he yielded to her caresses and returned them, he would have understood why this child should have loved him with such extraordinary affection. He kissed her forehead, he kissed her cheek, and seemed never weary of smoothing down her bright and silky curls. She reminded him of Geraldine. She had the same blue eyes and caressing ways. From the day he had come upon his old friend Hopgood in a condition of necessity almost of want, this blue-eyed baby had held its small sceptre over his lonely heart, and unbeknown to the rest of the world, had solaced many a spare five minutes with her innocent prattle. The Hopgoods understood the cause of his predilection and were silent. It was the one thing Mrs. Hopgood never alluded to in her gossips with Mrs. Kirkshaw. But to-day the attentions of Mr. Sylvester to the little one seemed to make the janitor restless. He walked up and down the narrow room uneasily surveying the pair out of the corner of his great glassy eyes, till even Mr. Sylvester noticed his unusual manner and put the child down, observing with a sigh, “You think she is not well enough for any excitement?” “No sir, it is not that,” returned the other uneasily, with a hasty look around him. “The fact is, I have something to say to you, sir, about—a discovery—I made the other day.” His words came very slowly, and he looked down with great embarrassment. Mr. Sylvester frowned slightly, and drew himself up to the full height of his very imposing figure. “A discovery,” repeated he, “when?” “The day you paid that early visit to the bank, sir, the day Mrs. Sylvester died.” The frown on Mr. Sylvester’s brow grew deeper. “The day—” he began, and stopped. “Excuse me, sir,” exclaimed Hopgood with a burst. “I ought not to have mentioned it, but you asked me _when_, and I—” “What was this discovery?” inquired his superior, imperatively. “Nothing much,” murmured the other now all in a cold sweat. “But I felt as if I ought to tell you. You have been my benefactor, sir, I can never forget what you have done for me and mine. If I saw death or bereavement between me and any favor I could do for you, sir, I would not hesitate to risk them. I am no talker, sir, but I am true and I am grateful.” He stopped, choked, and his eyes rolled frightfully. Mr. Sylvester looked at him, grew a trifle pale, and put the little child away that was nestling up against his knee. “You have not told me what you have discovered,” said he. “Well, sir, only this.” And he took from his pocket a small roll of paper which he unfolded and held out in his hand. It contained a gold tooth-pick somewhat bent and distorted. A flush dark and ominous crept over Mr. Sylvester’s cheek. He glanced sternly at the trembling janitor, and uttered a short, “Well?”