“Ethel,” he said, “I am more than sorry, my dear child, for all that has happened, but your husband will go back to business and all will be well; meantime put that in your bank to tide you over and keep things going as a weapon to fight fate.” It was a cheque for two thousand pounds. Imagine my amazement, imagine my pride at having a friend willing to make such a sacrifice; but, of course, I did not take it. I could not take it, although I thanked him from the bottom of my heart and promised if the necessity really came I would go to him. To give in one’s lifetime is true generosity, to bequeath after death is often merely convenience. * * * * * But my husband never smiled again. Overpowered by grief at the position in which he had placed his wife and children, he died six months later in his sleep; died simply of a broken heart. He was followed on the same journey only a few weeks later by my father, who passed away quite as suddenly, with the ink still wet on the paper of an article he was writing for the _Lancet_. He never finished his article, neither had he altered an old will as he had intended. * * * * * Three shocks had thus each followed the other in quick succession without time to recover from one before the next came, and so in little more than half a brief year the once happy daughter, wife, and mother stood alone, stunned, reduced to comparative poverty, with children clinging to her skirts. The two breadwinners of the family had gone out almost together. * * * * * There was not time to think and mourn and let precious moments go by. Something must be done. There was I with about as much to live on as I used to spend on my dress. Then my old dear friend came back to me. “I admired your pride and your pluck six months ago,” he said, “when you had a husband beside you to fight for you. But now, my dear child, you are alone and you have the children to think of. I wish you to go to your bank and put that two thousand pounds to your credit; and, more than that, I wish to adopt you as my daughter.” It was all so bewildering, so strange. I had known him all my life. He was one of my father’s oldest friends. His wife had always been charming to me and she had left me bits of jewellery when she died; but again I had to refuse. He had relations. I could not claim that privilege. Still he persisted. “You have always been like a daughter to me—to us—and now I want to claim the right to provide for you and your children.” Still I refused. I promised again to go to him if ever I was in real need; but I took nothing. When he died others inherited all he had. * * * * * There are only two crimes in Society: one to be poor, the other to be found out.