Some three months after this night a gentleman was sitting with a friend in a well-appointed house in Harley Street. The host was a man in the prime of life, his name Hollingworth; the guest was his elder in years, his name Manners--none other than the once great contractor--Mr. Valentine Manners, Kingsley's father. They had dined, and were sitting over their claret.

Mr. Valentine Manners had long since retired from business. For many years he had travelled the world in search of something--he knew not what--which he had lost, and had returned home without finding it. Part of the time his nephew, Mark Inglefield, who was to be his heir, had travelled with him; but the younger man had made periodical visits to England upon his uncle's private affairs, of which he had the practical management. A fortune so vast as Mr. Valentine Manners had amassed was in itself a business, the care of which occupied a great deal of time.

Mr. Hollingworth and his guest had discussed many matters, the most important of which was a proposed marriage between Mr. Hollingworth's only daughter, Beatrice, and Mark Inglefield, the rich contractor's heir. The girl was barely twenty, Mark Inglefield nearly fifty; but these disparities are not uncommon in matrimonial unions in which money and not love is the principal factor. Mr. Hollingworth had only one other child, a son of twenty-six, who had just been elected a member of the House of Commons. The conversation of the two gentlemen was interrupted by the announcement of a servant that a man wished to see Mr. Hollingworth.

The tone of the servant when he uttered the words "a man" was a sufficient indication of his opinion of the visitor's standing. Mr. Hollingworth accepted his servant's opinion.

"Did you say I was busy?"

"I told him so, sir, and that you could not be disturbed."

"Well?"

"He said he must see you, sir, and that he would come every day and night till he did." Mr. Hollingworth groaned. "Did he give you his name?"

"Yes, sir, and said you would know it. Mr. Parkinson--a stone-mason, he said he was."

"Parkinson--Parkinson! I do not know the man, and I have not been engaged in building. More in your way, Mr. Manners."

His guest nodded, but made no remark; there was nothing in the incident to interest him.

"He has been here several times this week, sir," said the servant.

"I remember now hearing of it, and I left instructions that he was to put his business with me in writing."

"He paid no attention to that, sir, but kept on calling."

"Well, we must get rid of him somehow. A stone-mason, eh? Parkinson--the very name for a stone-mason. My boy Dick carried his election on the working-man's interests. A popular cry; we are becoming very radical. Show Mr. Parkinson up. You have no objection, Mr. Manners?"

"None at all."

The servant retired, and returned, ushering in Mr. Parkinson. Mr. Hollingworth cast a keen glance at his visitor, and saw that he was to all appearance a respectable working-man.

"You wish to see me?"

"Yes, sir," replied Mr. Parkinson in a respectful tone, and yet with something of defiance. He had repaid Mr. Hollingworth's keen glance with interest. He was calmer now than when he had recounted his wrongs at the meeting of the Wilberforce Club; but although he was holding himself in check, he was quite as much in earnest.

"It seems that a personal interview was imperative."

"It was, sir."

"Well, I am not disinclined to listen to you. Anything respecting politics? My son, Mr. Richard Hollingworth, has lately been returned to Parliament in the interests of the working-man, as I dare say you know."

"Yes, sir, I know it. That is how I found you out, though I expected to see an older gentleman than you."

Mr. Hollingworth smiled. "You may do that in the course of years if I live. Your expectation is an inexplicable one, however, and as strange as your expression that you have found me out. Almost a crime," he continued, still with a smile on his face, "to be found out in these days. You have come, then, upon political business?"

"No, sir; I have come upon private business."

"Upon private business! A singular time to introduce it. As singular as the question. What private business can there be between you and me, who are perfect strangers to each other?"

"There is private business between us, sir, of a vital nature. You will understand if you will listen to me, as you said you would."

"Will you be long?"

"I will try not to be, but there's a tale to tell."

"Tell it, my friend, as briefly as you can. Will you wait?" he asked, turning to his guest, "or shall we resume our conversation to-morrow?"

"I will wait," replied Mr. Manners, "unless you wish to hear this person in private."

"I have no such wish."

"I think it will be better, sir," said Mr. Parkinson, "that we shall speak without witnesses."

"Let me be the judge of that," said Mr. Hollingworth, warmly. "You have chosen to intrude upon me at an untimely hour, and if you have anything to say of which you are ashamed, you have only yourself to blame for the publicity."

"The shame's on your side, not on mine," retorted Mr. Parkinson, speaking as warmly as Mr. Hollingworth had done, "and the blame rests with you and yours."

Mr. Hollingworth's hand, at this retort, was extended towards the bell, and but for the last two words uttered by his visitor he would have ordered him to the door. He sank back in his chair, and with some sternness desired Mr. Parkinson to proceed.

"I am, as you may see, sir, a working-man, and have been so all my life. I live Whitechapel way, and this is my full name and address." He placed an envelope on the table. "I am a widower with one child, a daughter, just eighteen years of age. My wife died eight years ago, and I brought up my girl as well as I could. She is good-looking, worse luck! and can read and write. There has never been anything against me; I owe no man a penny, and my character in my line is as good as yours or any gentleman's in his."

"I don't see how all this affects me," said Mr. Hollingworth, with an assumption of weariness. "Cannot you spare me further details?"

"I must tell my story my own way, sir, and you will soon see how it affects you."

"Go on, then, if it must be so."

"If we had been let alone, my girl and me, there would have been no occasion for me to be here now; but we were not let alone, to live our lives our own way. We were interfered with by a gentleman."

"Come, come, my friend," said Mr. Hollingworth, "this is mere clap-trap."

"Not a bit of clap-trap about it, sir. Hard, bitter truth; that's what it is. According to the order of things, my girl would have married one of my sort, one of her own--there were plenty after her, but she wouldn't look at 'em--and would have had her regular ups and downs, and gone through life respectable."

"Oh," remarked Mr. Hollingworth, flippantly, "she has spoiled her chance for that!"

"It's been spoiled for her, sir. When and where she met this gentleman of hers I've no means of saying; she's as close as wax; and it is only by a trick--a just trick that a father has a right to use--that I've come to some knowledge of things. But I'll tell my story straight, and won't run ahead more than I can help. It's months ago now since my girl run away from me, and left never a word behind her that I could find her by."

"In the name of all that's reasonable," exclaimed Mr. Hollingworth, "you have not come to me to find her for you?"

"No, sir; that's not my business here. My girl was found and saved by an angel."

"A veritable angel?" asked Mr. Hollingworth. He was nettled by the tone and attitude of the man, and was disposed to resent these signs by a lightness of manner in his reception of the uninvited confidence that was being reposed in him.

"What do you mean by veritable?" demanded Mr. Parkinson; and quickly himself answered his own question. "Oh! I know; a kind of mockery of me! The angel I mean is a woman with a name which I'll give you if you like."

"It's a matter of perfect indifference to me, my good man."

"I'll give it to you, then. There are not many like her, and as I come here alone, unsupported by evidences or witnesses, you might, when I've done, like to find out for yourself whether I'm speaking the truth. That would be only fair. The good angel who found and saved my Mary is Mrs. Manners, who is something more than loved--she's worshipped by every one who knows her."

When Mr. Parkinson uttered the name of Manners, Mr. Hollingworth started, and glanced at his visitor; but the great contractor made no movement.

"Your daughter being found and saved," said Mr. Hollingworth, "there is a pleasant ending of your story."

"Not at all, sir. There's been a wrong done that must be righted; and before we come to the way of that, there's more to say. When my girl ran away from her home I was for a long time fairly mad, and was ready to strike both him and her dead at my feet if I had the chance. I was as bitter against her as against him; and if I'd known what I know now, there would have been a case in the papers, and the boys in the streets screaming out the news. But I couldn't discover who the man was; all that reached me was through hearsay from one of her girl companions, who had happened to see her in the company of a man they called a gentleman. They didn't know who he was any more than I did; and when I made up my mind that my girl had been brought to shame, I swore that she should never darken my doors again. A good many weeks passed by, and my feelings against my girl got harder instead of softer; and then, sir, the usual thing happened."

"I understand," said Mr. Hollingworth, "as little of what you mean by 'the usual thing happened,' as I do of how the story you are telling can possibly affect me."

"A little more patience, sir, and it will be clear to you. The usual thing is, that the man who wronged my child deserted her."

"Ah!"

"She was left pretty well shipwrecked in this big city of cruelty. Where should she turn to? Where do they all turn to in their thoughts? To the home they have brought disgrace upon; to the father and mother whose hearts they have broken. But my girl was afraid to come to me. She had somehow heard that I had sworn she should never cross my threshold again; that I had sworn to strike her down dead if she ever came before me again. So she hid herself and her shame, and fell into a fever, and was close to the death I had sworn against her. I knew nothing of it; the news didn't reach my ears, but it reached the ears of the angel woman I spoke of, Mrs. Manners. The way of it was that, thinking she hadn't many hours to live, my girl wrote a letter to one whom she loved and honored, a girl of her own age, sweet, and loving, and good, Miss Hester Manners. 'Dear Hester,' my girl wrote, 'come to me, if only for a minute, and give me one kind look before I die. Heaven will reward you for it.' There was more in the letter that I won't trouble you with. Miss Hester, as was right and proper, showed her mother the letter, and her mother, as was right and proper, said, 'My dear, I will go and see the poor girl.' Heaven bless her for her merciful act all the days of her life! She is poorer than I am by a long way, and has had such a battle to fight as few women have, and has fought it in a way that no other woman could. I have been pretty much of a careless, selfish man, I can see that now; not through her telling me of it; no, sir; but through her ways, somehow, that I've seen so much of lately. I've been neglectful of my duty, though I've led an honest life, which is about the best that can be said about me, but I'm a different man now through her, a different and a better man, I hope, than I've ever been; and if I could serve her by suffering any pain that a man can suffer, I'd do it gladly, and thank the chance. It was late at night when Miss Hester gave her the letter from my poor girl, and her husband wasn't at home, but she went straight on her errand of mercy, and remained with my child, nursing and attending to her till daylight came; and when she went away she promised to go again, and she did, day after day, night after night, taking her sewing with her, for the minutes were precious, and bread for her family had to be earned. This went on, sir, for some time in secret without me ever knowing it, until my Mary was snatched from death's door by this bright angel. Then, sir, Mrs. Manners began to speak to me of my child; how she did it I can't remember, try my hardest; there was nothing sudden, no news all at once that my Mary had been almost dying, and nursed back to life by her; she softened my heart gradually in a cunning and beautiful way, bringing Miss Hester with her to my rooms, and making me feel, as the dear young lady moved about, doing this and that for me, how happy I might be once more if I could see my child doing as she was doing. Mrs. Manners's heart is not only a heart of love and mercy, it is a heart of wisdom, and when she had well prepared me, and had led up to it so that I couldn't have refused to do the hardest task she set me, then, sir, it was that she told me all that had happened to my Mary, and told me, in her loving, gentle voice, that it was my duty to open my arms to the child who had been led into wrong through her own innocence and helplessness, and perhaps through my own neglect. She didn't put this last thought into my mind; it came there out of my own sorrow and self-reproach, but it was Mrs. Manners who planted the seed. I took my girl home, hoping and believing that everything would be right, and resolved, too, to do all I could to make 'em right. But the contrary has happened, and another disgrace, that none of us but my Mary knew, is threatening me now. The companions she used to associate with won't have anything to say to her. The poor can be hard, sir, as well as the rich--I've found that out; can be hard, and unjust, and merciless. Perhaps it was my Mary's own fault. She went away a merry, chattering magpie, singing and laughing, and chirruping like a cricket. She came back quiet and melancholy, and she moves about as though she wanted to die. The only women friends she has are Miss Hester and her mother; she's faithful and loving to them, but often when they are gone I find her crying fit to break her heart. Now, sir, as was natural, I tried to get out of her the name of the man who has brought this ruin and shame upon us, but never a word would she let slip, even to them who proved themselves better friends to her than I was. Seeing she was so quiet and shy, I looked out for letters; none came, and if she wrote any she has kept it secret from me. Now, sir, with the new disgrace threatening us that only a few days ago came, to my knowledge, I was more determined than ever to find out the man who must do her justice. I had never pried into the little box of clothes she brought home with her, and that she kept always locked in her bedroom, but I thought myself justified now in opening it unknown to her. It wasn't difficult; it is a cheap, common box, and almost any key the size of the lock would open it. I found no letters there, but a portrait, with a name at the back in my girl's writing. I went to her straight, and told her what I had done. 'Is this the man?' I asked her. She said, 'Yes,' in a whisper. 'Did he give it to you himself?' I asked. 'No,' she answered, 'I took it without his knowing, and he doesn't know now that I've got it.' That shows the wickedness and artfulness of the villain--I beg your pardon, sir, for letting the right word slip."

"Why beg my pardon?" asked Mr. Hollingworth, coldly.

"Can't you guess what I'm coming to, sir?"

"Indeed, I cannot; and I may add that up to this point, although I sympathize with you in your trouble, and wish it were in my power to relieve you, I have not the remotest idea why you have inflicted your story upon me."

"Is that true?"

"As this is the last time you will have the opportunity of speaking to me, I forgive the impertinence. It is quite true."

"But you sympathize with me, you say?"

"I have said so. You are yourself aware that your unhappy story is one which many poor fathers can relate; but that does not render it less detestable. You seem to be mistaken in me, my friend. You present yourself here to me, and plainly, although not in the exact words, you say, 'I am a working-man, and therefore an honest man. You are a gentleman, and therefore a scoundrel. I credit myself with virtue; I credit you with vice. I am a worthy member of society; you are an infamous one.'" And now Mr. Hollingworth spoke with real dignity: "You are absolutely and fatally in error. The pernicious views you have in effect expressed are, I am well aware, shared by many of your class. They are erroneous views. Among the class I may be supposed to represent are a number of very worthy and honest persons who are really earnest in their desire and endeavors to set right what is wrong in society. I believe myself to be one of these persons; I believe my son to be another; and it is you and such as you who throw obstacles in our way. There is something too much of this parade of exceptional virtues on the part of such demagogues as yourself. Have I made myself clear to you?"

"Quite clear, sir," replied Mr. Parkinson, frankly and respectfully. He had listened with eager attention and interest to Mr. Hollingworth, from whose speech he seemed to derive satisfaction. "And I am free to admit that there is some truth in what you have said."

"Really!" exclaimed Mr. Hollingworth, letting his earnest mood slip from him. "Perhaps you are as free to admit that even among the humbler classes such wrongs are done as you have come here to descant upon."

"I admit it, sir; but each wrong must be treated on its own special ground. Had a poor man betrayed my child, I should have gone to him as I now come to you."

"This is beyond endurance--"

"No, sir," interposed Mr. Parkinson, "do not summon your servants until you hear what name is written on the back of the portrait I found in my poor girl's box."

"Let me hear it, then, without any further beating about the bush."

"It is that of your son, Mr. Richard Hollingworth!"