"You are suspicious of me?" "Put it as you like. You don't know me, and never heard of me before to-night, and I don't suppose you care a brass farthing whether you ever hear of me again. I never saw you before to-night, and I don't know your name even; so you have the advantage of me. You're in the light, you see, and I'm in the dark, and here we are talking together confidentially, with the difference that you know what you're talking about, and I don't. Stop a bit. I see you want to speak; but I must work off my reel first. I don't care for interruptions. You've heard me tell my story; you've got in your mind my name, and my girl's name and shame, likewise the name of the man I'd take by the throat if he stood before me now and I knew it. Likewise the name of the angel woman who saved her, and who'd stand by her--I'll take my oath on it--if all the rest of the world was hounding her and throwing mud at her. Likely as not you're a friend of the scoundrel that's brought this upon us. I saw something in your face that makes me sure now he's not a stranger to you. He was a gentleman, so-called; you're another. I've only got your word for it that the talk you're having with me is for a good purpose. It may be for a bad one. I've no call to trust you that I can see. Give me a reason." "I find no fault with you for your suspicion of me. My name is Manners." "Oh! And is the woman I'd die to serve a connection of yours?" "She may be. It is to ascertain whether she is that I am questioning you now." "For a good purpose, you said?" "What I said I mean." "Let me have another look at you." Again they stopped, and again Mr. Parkinson's eyes fixed themselves on Mr. Manners's face. He was to some extent apparently satisfied. "Go ahead," he said. "You said," resumed Mr. Manners, steadily, "that her being poor, very poor, stands to her credit here, and will stand to her credit in another world, and I asked in what way." "All right. You've got a clear head on you. In this way. She's got nothing to gain by it. What she does is done out of pure goodness--not only what she's done for me and my girl, but what she does for every one who's in trouble. There isn't a face that don't light up when she comes by; there isn't a lodging, the commonest you can think of, that isn't brightened when she opens the door. If she was to die to-morrow--the good Lord forbid that she should! but I'm putting it that way to make it plain to you--if she was to die to-morrow, there'd be hundreds of us, men, women, and children, who'd follow her to the grave, and know that they'd lost a friend that could never be replaced. There would be no money to pay for a stone, but she'd have one in our hearts. God Almighty bless her and hers!" CHAPTER XXXVI.