Mrs. Barclay had only experienced a feeling of relief when her husband failed to return to her. She had grown accustomed to taking care of herself and the children without him, and his presence seemed likely only to impose upon her an additional burden. Though she earned her living in a humble way, she was fairly educated, and could sew neatly, but a brief trial with the needle satisfied her that it would be quite impossible to obtain the comforts of life for three persons in that way. So she had mastered her pride, and entered the lists as a laundress.

“And how are the children, Mrs. Barclay?” asked Mrs. Hogan.

“They are both well, thank God.”

“And do you never hear anything of their father?”

Mrs. Barclay’s face clouded.

“Yes,” she answered, “he came home a few days since, but only stayed one day.”

“Didn’t he bring you any money then?”

“No; he borrowed some from me.”

“It’s a shame, so it is, in a great, strapping man like him to leave you to work for the poor children.”

Mrs. Hogan had never seen Mr. Barclay, or she would have recognized him in the man whom she helped drive away from his father’s room, and was utterly ignorant of the relationship between him and the old man whom she was nursing.

“I don’t know but it’s wrong,” said Ellen, “but I believe I should be happy if I thought he would never come again. He has only brought me trouble, and I dread his influence upon the children; we are better off without him. But how are you getting along yourself, Mrs. Hogan?”

“I’ve no cause to complain,” answered the Irish widow. “I’m well, and Mike and I pick up a living. Just now I’m taking care of a sick man in the room across the entry. It’s an ould man—a kind of miser he is, I surmise—and his name is the same as your own, Mrs. Barclay.”

The name of Barclay is not an uncommon one, but this statement seemed to produce a strong impression on Mrs. Hogan’s visitor.

“An old man named Barclay?” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“How old, should you think?”

“I don’t know, but he’s all dried up, and wrinkled. He may be siventy.”

“May I see him?” asked the visitor, eagerly.

“Shure you may go in with me when I give him his medicine.”

Ellen Barclay followed Mrs. Hogan into the opposite room, and looked with strange interest at the wan, emaciated old man stretched out on the bed.

“I’ve brought your medicine for you, Jerry,” said Mrs. Hogan, soothingly.

“Jerry!” exclaimed the younger woman. “Is his name Jerry?”

“Shure it is; and what thin?”

“My husband’s father was named Jeremiah. This may be he.”

“Have you niver seen him?” asked Mrs. Hogan, in surprise.

“Never; I did not know he was living till my husband’s recent visit. Then he spoke of his father’s being a miser, and his expecting to get some money from him.”

“Well, well; if I ever heard the like! As like as not old Jerry is your father in law. I’ll soon see.”

“Jerry, do you want to see your own son?” she asked, bending over, and addressing her patient.

An expression of alarm overspread the old man’s face.

“Don’t let him come in! Keep him away!” he exclaimed.

“Are you afraid of your own son, thin?” asked the nurse.

“He is a bad man; he tried to rob me,” said the old man, looking about him fearfully.

“I do believe it’s that man I threw the bilin’ water on!” exclaimed Mrs. Hogan, in surprise. “What’s your husband’s appearance, Mrs. Barclay?”

“He is tall and thick set, and his hair is inclined to be red.”

“Has he a scar on his right cheek?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the same man I drove away last week, wid the bilin’ water. He was trying to hurt old Jerry, wasn’t he, Jerry?”

“Yes, yes,” muttered the old man. “He’s a bad man, and he wanted to take away all my money, and I’m so poor.”

“Is he so poor?” asked Mrs. Barclay.

“No, it’s only his fancy. He’s what you call a miser; that’s what Paul says.”

“Where is Paul? Paul is a good boy!” murmured Jerry, half unconscious, but his attention arrested by the familiar name.

“Yes, he is a good boy,” repeated Mrs. Hogan. “It’s he that engaged me to take care of Jerry, when he was took sick, and he tould me he’d see that I was paid.”

“How long has this boy been with him? I remember now Mr. Barclay mentioned a telegraph boy. He didn’t seem to like him. I should like to see the boy; perhaps he could tell me something of the old man, and help me to decide whether he is really my husband’s father. On what day did James call here?”

Mrs. Hogan told her.

“It was the day after he left me. You say he got no money?”

“No; but he would if I hadn’t come in.”

“It is strange he has not been here since.”

“No, it isn’t, Mrs. Barclay; he was took in by a policeman, and I expect he’s on the Island.”

Ellen Barclay breathed a sigh of relief. Had her husband been the man he should have been, such news would have brought sorrow and distress. Now she regarded it as an augury of peace. While he was in confinement he would not be able to molest her.

“When can I see this boy, Paul?” she asked.

“Paul is generally at home some part of the evening, though he’s liable to come in at odd times.”

“I will try to come over tomorrow evening, if you think he will be at home.”

“It would be a good thing for you if the ould man has money, as Paul thinks,” said Mrs. Hogan, in a low voice.

“Not if my husband were free,” said Ellen Barclay.

“Thrue for you! He came near murderin’ the ould man. But there’s a dale of virtue in hot water,” added Mrs. Hogan, with a laugh. “He made a mistake when he tackled Bridget Hogan, I can tell him that, now.”

“I shall have to go now, Mrs. Hogan. I left the children alone.”

“Not without a cup of tay. I’m just goin’ to make some for the ould man, and you’re welcome to a cup.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hogan. I know of old that your tea is good.”

“It is that same, if I say so myself.”

“One thing I can’t understand,” said Ellen Barclay, thoughtfully. “You say the telegraph boy pays you for taking care of this old man?”

“Yes, he does.”

“But where does he get the money? Telegraph boys are not usually paid a big salary.”

“That’s thrue; but Paul is such a favorite he gets many presents. He’s an honest boy, and it’s my hope my boy Mike will grow up just loike him.”

“I will see him for myself tomorrow evening. If Jerry, as you call him, is really my father in law, I ought to know it. He seems a very different man from my husband. I can’t see any resemblance between them.”

“That’s not strange, neither. Pat Hogan’s father was a little, dried up shrimp of a man like ould Jerry here, and Pat was five tin, or tin feet five, in his stockings I disremember which.”

“I think it must be five feet ten,” said Ellen Barclay, with a smile.

“No doubt you’re right, ma’am. But just come round tomorrow evenin’ and see Paul, and then, maybe, you’ll find out all you want to know.”