The doll once more safe behind the pillow, Sophy’s face gradually softened; she bent forward, touched the Mayor’s hand timidly, and looked at him with pleading, penitent eyes, still wet with tears,—eyes that said, though the lips were silent, “I’ll not hate you. I was ungrateful and peevish; may I beg pardon?”

“I forgive you with all my heart,” cried the Mayor, interpreting the look aright. “And now try and compose yourself and sleep while I talk with your grandpapa below.”

“I don’t see how it is possible that I can leave her,” said Waife, when the two men had adjourned to the sitting-room. “I am sure,” quoth the Mayor, seriously, “that it is the best thing for her: her pulse has much nervous excitability; she wants a complete rest; she ought not to move about with you on any account. But come: though I must not know, it seems, who and what you are, Mr. Chapman, I don’t think you will run off with my cow; and if you like to stay at the bailiff’s cottage for a week or two with your grandchild, you shall be left in peace, and asked no questions. I will own to you a weakness of mine: I value myself on being seldom or never taken in. I don’t think I could forgive the man who did take me in. But taken in I certainly shall be, if, despite all your mystery, you are not as honest a fellow as ever stood upon shoe-leather! So come to the cottage.”

Waife was very much affected by this confiding kindness; but he shook his head despondently, and that same abject, almost cringing humility of mien and manner which had pained at times Lionel and Vance crept over the whole man, so that he seemed to cower and shrink as a Pariah before a Brahmin. “No, sir; thank you most humbly. No, sir; that must not be. I must work for my daily bread; if what a poor vagabond like me may do can be called work. I have made it a rule for years not to force myself to the hearth and home of any kind man, who, not knowing my past, has a right to suspect me. Where I lodge, I pay as a lodger; or whatever favour shown me spares my purse, I try to return in some useful humble way. Why, sir, how could I make free and easy with another man’s board and roof-tree for days or weeks together, when I would not even come to your hearthstone for a cup of tea?” The Mayor remembered, and was startled. Waife hurried on. “But for my poor child I have no such scruples,—no shame, no false pride. I take what you offer her gratefully,—gratefully. Ah, sir, she is not in her right place with me; but there’s no use kicking against the pricks. Where was I? Oh! well, I tell you what we will do, sir. I will take her to the cottage in a day or two,—as soon as she is well enough to go,—and spend the day with her, and deceive her, sir! yes, deceive, cheat her, sir! I am a cheat, a player, and she’ll think I’m going to stay with her; and at night, when she’s asleep, I’ll creep off, I and the other dog. But I’ll leave a letter for her: it will soothe her, and she’ll be patient and wait. I will come back again to see her in a week, and once every week, till she’s well again.”

“And what will you do?”

“I don’t know; but,” said the actor, forcing a laugh, “I ‘m not a man likely to starve. Oh, never fear, sir.”

So the Mayor went away, and strolled across the fields to his bailiff’s cottage, to prepare for the guest it would receive. “It is all very well that the poor man should be away for some days,” thought Mr. Hartopp. “Before he comes again, I shall have hit on some plan to serve him; and I can learn more about him from the child in his absence, and see what he is really fit for. There’s a schoolmaster wanted in Morley’s village. Old Morley wrote to me to recommend him one. Good salary,—pretty house. But it would be wrong to set over young children—recommend to a respectable proprietor and his parson—a man whom I know nothing about. Impossible! that will not do. If there was any place of light service which did not require trust or responsibility,—but there is no such place in Great Britain. Suppose I were to set him up in some easy way of business,—a little shop, eh? I don’t know. What would Williams say? If, indeed, I were taken in! if the man I am thus credulously trusting turned out a rogue,”—the Mayor paused and actually shivered at that thought,—“why then, I should be fallen indeed. My wife would not let me have half-a-crown in my pockets; and I could, not walk a hundred yards but Williams would be at my heels to protect me from being stolen by gypsies. Taken in by him! No, impossible! But if it turn out as I suspect,—that, contrary to vulgar prudence, I am divining a really great and good man in difficulties, aha, what a triumph I shall then gain over them all! How Williams will revere me!” The good man laughed aloud at that thought, and walked on with a prouder step.