"Yes, uncle, a little, a very little. But I shall manage; I have already earned a trifle." "In what way?" inquired Mr. Loveday, much mystified. "I got some needlework to do, and am being paid for it." "But in the name of all that's reasonable," exclaimed Mr. Loveday, "where and when do you do your work?" "In my room of a night, uncle," replied Nansie, blushing. "When we are all asleep," said Mr. Loveday, with the nearest approach to a grumble she had heard from his lips. "This must not continue, Nansie. You will do your work here of an evening and during the day, if it is necessary." "Yes, uncle, I will obey you. But--" her form swayed slightly, and she was compelled to make an effort to keep herself from swooning--"you must not be angry with me. I am not very strong just now." She brought her work down, and went on with it before his eyes, and there was perfect harmony between them. But still, in the stillness of her room, when her uncle supposed her to be abed, her fingers were busy in their labor of tenderest love. CHAPTER XXI. The event which occurred in Mr. Loveday's house in Church Alley, and which caused him perhaps the greatest excitement in his life, will be explained by the following letter which Nansie wrote to her husband two months after the conversation between her and her uncle narrated in the last chapter: "My Own Dear Kingsley,-- At length I am strong enough to write to you, and it is a great joy to me to sit down once more to speak to the beloved wanderer of whom I think night and day. I am sure that you must be with me, in spirit, even in my dreamless sleep. You will not be sorry to know that you are not the only one now the thought of whom makes my heart a garden of flowers. I have a sweet treasure--surely the sweetest that ever blessed a happy woman--lying at my feet, and you will not begrudge me. Oh, my dear Kingsley, if you were with me at this moment, and we were looking down together on the lovely, innocent face of our darling, you would think as I do, that heaven itself was shining in the little room in which I am writing! Everything is so strangely beautiful that I can scarcely believe I am living the same life I lived till I became a happy, happy mother. It is not the same--it is sweeter, purer, more precious; I seem to hear angelic music even in the silence which surrounds me. I know what produces it. I put my face close to my darling's mouth, and I can just hear her soft breathing.