“We have,” said Arkwright, rubbing his hands, “but the mother is ill unto death, and the child will live to make the best of the money.” “Then, its people were rich?” asked the Jew, his eye shining, as he wanted to be very sure that the child upstairs was the little heiress. He wanted to know that he was not paying out a thousand for nothing. He cared not a picayune if Jim stayed in prison all the rest of his days, but he wanted to get the child whose mother was the daughter of the millionaire Benson, and there must be no mistake. “Rich,” replied Arkwright, as he held the large gate open for the Jew to pass through; “I should think so. They have more money than they know what to do with,” and as the Jew walked away he waggled his beard after the manner of his race. “I have you right where I want you, Arkwright,” said he to himself. “You think that the child’s life is worth a great deal, and I will show you that there is no one who can balk me and George Benson without failing in their plans.” * * * * * When Biddy Roan was with Annie Standish upstairs there was a pathetic scene. The sick woman had heard the news of her father’s death. “Biddy,” she said plaintively, “I know that I shall not live until the morrow. Now, there are none of my people who care a cent for me or the child, and I want you to promise me that you will take my Helen, remember her name is Helen Standish, and take her with you.” “Now, now, honey,” soothed the Irishwoman, “you need not be so worrit over this child, nor over yourself, for I am a-thinking that you’se is a-going to get well. But if you’se shouldn’t I will take your darling to my house, and there will be no better mother in the world than I will be to the likes of her.” Annie Standish smiled faintly, for she knew this, and had she not had evidence of the goodness of the woman’s heart? “Listen, Biddy, until I charge you with something. My father is dead, and he has left his fortune to my cousin, so I think. Now then, don’t you let him know of my child’s existence, for if he does he may do her some terrible harm.” “Then he shan’t know of it, honey. Now you just take a good look at the darling and go to sleep.” Biddy went to the child’s crib and picked the little one up in her arms. “Come and give a kiss to you’se poor mother, me darlint,” said she softly, “and then you’se can snooze again to sleep. Now then, be a good girl.” The little one whined, for sleep had closed her eyelids and the tired child was worn out with her prison play. “Mother’s precious baby,” said the mother sleepily; “I will hold her, Biddy, for a little while, for she is so sweet.” “But it will tire you to death,” cried the Irishwoman. “Now then, you let me put her back on her own little bed, and you both try and sleep.” Biddy crept out and left the mother and child alone, and as she passed out she muttered a prayer for the sick woman and for the welfare of her little child.