r　suggestion？”

“No。”

“Whose；　then？”

“His　daughter’s；　I　think。”

“It　is　like　her：　she　is　so　good…natured。”

“Yes。”

Again　came　the　blank　of　a　pause：　the　clock　struck　eight　strokes。　It　aroused　him；　he　uncrossed　his　legs；　sat　erect；　turned　to　me。

“Leave　your　book　a　moment；　and　e　a　little　nearer　the　fire；”　he　said。

Wondering；　and　of　my　wonder　finding　no　end；　I　plied。

“Half…an…hour　ago；”　he　pursued；　“I　spoke　of　my　impatience　to　hear　the　sequel　of　a　tale：　on　reflection；　I　find　the　matter　will　be　better　managed　by　my　assuming　the　narrator’s　part；　and　converting　you　into　a　listener。　Before　mencing；　it　is　but　fair　to　warn　you　that　the　story　will　sound　somewhat　hackneyed　in　your　ears；　but　stale　details　often　regain　a　degree　of　freshness　when　they　pass　through　new　lips。　For　the　rest；　whether　trite　or　novel；　it　is　short。

“Twenty　years　ago；　a　poor　curate—never　mind　his　name　at　this　moment—fell　in　love　with　a　rich　man’s　daughter；　she　fell　in　love　with　him；　and　married　him；　against　the　advice　of　all　her　friends；　who　consequently　disowned　her　immediately　after　the　wedding。　Before　two　years　passed；　the　rash　pair　were　both　dead；　and　laid　quietly　side　by　side　under　one　slab。　（I　have　seen　their　grave；　it　formed　part　of　the　pavement　of　a　huge　churchyard　surrounding　the　grim；　soot…black　old　cathedral　of　an　overgrown　manufacturing　town　in　—　shire。）　They　left　a　daughter；　which；　at　its　very　birth；　Charity　received　in　her　lap—cold　as　t