"I aint his own girl, and he knows it," said Alison, speaking pertly because her heart was so sick.

Jim hardly noticed her sharp words--he was feeling very depressed himself--he sank into the chair Grannie had offered him, placed his big elbows on his knees, pushed his huge hands through his thick hair, and scratched his head in perplexity.

"It's an awful mystery, that it is," he said; "there aint a person in the shop as don't fret a bit for Ally--she was so bright and genteel-looking; and no one thinks she's done it. If only, Alison, you hadn't gone away so sharp, the whole thing would have blown over by now."

"Coming of the blood----" began Grannie; but Alison knew the conclusion of that sentence, and interrupted her.

"Bygones is bygones," she said, "and we have got to face the future.

I'll look out for another post to-day; I'll begin to study the papers, and see what can be done. It aint to be supposed that this will crush me out and out, and me so young and strong."

"But you'll have to get a character," said Jim, whose brow had not relaxed from the deep frown which it wore.

Alison gave her head another toss.

"I must do my best," she said. She evidently did not intend to pursue the subject further with her lover.

Jim was not at all an un.o.bservant man. He had seen many signs which distressed him, both in Grannie's face and Alison's; he knew also that Harry had been taken from school quite a year too soon; he knew well that Alison's bread winnings were necessary for the family, and that it was impossible to expect an old body like Grannie to feed all those hungry mouths much longer.

"Look here," he said, rising suddenly to his feet, "I have got something to say."

"Oh, dear, dear, why will you waste our time?" said Alison.

"It aint waste, and you have got to listen--please, Mrs. Reed, don't go out of the room; I want you to hear it too. Now, you look at me, Alison Reed. I am big, aint I, and I'm strong, and I earn good wages, right good--for a man as isn't twenty-five yet. I'm getting close on two pounds a week now, and you can see for yourselves that that's a good pile."

"Bless us!" said Grannie, "it's a powerful heap of money."

"Well, I'm getting that," said Jim, with a sort of righteous pride on his face, "and no one who knows what's what could complain of the same.

Now, this is what I'm thinking. I am all alone in the world; I haven't kith nor kin belonging to me, only an uncle in Australia, and he don't count, as I never set eyes on him. I'd have never come to London but for father and mother dying off sudden when I was but a bit of a lad.

I'm sort of lonely in the evenings, and I want a wife awful bad."

"Well, there's Louisa Clay, and she's willing," said Alison, who, notwithstanding that her heart was almost bursting, could not restrain her flippant tone.

Jim gave her a steady look out of his dark gray eyes, but did not reply. She lowered her own eyes then, unable to bear their true and faithful glance.

"What I say is this," said Jim, "that I know you, Alison; you aint no more a thief than I am. Why shouldn't you come home to me? Why shouldn't you make me happy--and why shouldn't I help the lads and Grannie a bit? You'd have as snug a home as any girl in London; and I'd be proud to work for you. I wouldn't want you to do any more shopwork. Why should we wait and keep everybody wretched just for a bit of false pride? Why should you not trust me, Ally? And I love you, my dear; I love you faithful and true."

"I wish you wouldn't say any more, Jim," said Alison.

The note in her voice had changed from sharp petulance to a low sort of wail. She sank on a chair, laid her head on the table which stood near, and burst into tears.

"Grannie, I wish you would try and persuade her," said the young man.

"I'll talk to her," said Grannie; "it seems reasonable enough. Two pounds a week! Lor' bless us! why, it's wealth--and ef you love her, Jim?"

"Need you ask?" he answered.

"No, I needn't; you're a good lad. Well, come back again, Jim; go away now and come back again. We'll see you at the end of a week, that we will."

Jim rose slowly and unwillingly. Alison would not look at him. She was sobbing in a broken-hearted way behind her handkerchief.

"I don't see why there should be suspense," he said, as he took up his cap. "It's the right thing to do; everything else is wrong. And see here, Alison, I'll take a couple of the children; they don't cost much, I know, and it will be such a help to Grannie."

"To be sure, that it will," said Grannie. "That offer about the children is a p'int to be considered. You go away, Jim, and come back again at the end of a week."

The young man gave a loving glance at Alison's sunny head as it rested on the table. His inclination was to go up to her, take her head between his hands, raise the tearful face, kiss the tears away, and, in short, take the fortress by storm. But Grannie's presence prevented this, and Alison would not once look up. The old woman gave him an intelligent and hopeful glance, and he was obliged to be content with it and hurry off.

"I'll come again next Tuesday to get my answer," he said.

Alison murmured something which he did not hear. The next instant he had left the room.

The moment his footsteps had died away Alison raised her tearful face.

"You had no right to do it, Grannie," she said. "It was sort of encouraging him."

"Dry your tears now, child," said Mrs. Reed. "We'll talk of this later on."

"You said yourself I'd have no proper pride to marry Jim at present,"

continued the girl.

"We'll talk of this later on," said Grannie; "the children will be home in a minute to tea. After tea you and me will talk it over while they are learning their lessons."

Grannie could be very immovable and determined when she liked. Having lived with her all her life, Alison knew her every mood. She perceived now, by her tightly shut up lips, and the little compression, which was scarcely a frown, between her brows, that she could get nothing more out of her at present.

She prepared the tea, therefore; and when the children came in she cut bread and margerine for them, for b.u.t.ter had long ago ceased to appear on Grannie's board.

After tea the children went into Grannie's bedroom to learn their lessons, and the old woman and the young found themselves alone. The lamp was lit, and the little room looked very cheerful; it was warm and snug. Grannie sat with her hands before her.

"I thought I wouldn't tell you, but I must," she said. "It's a month to-day, aint it, Ally, since you lost your place?"

"Yes, a month exactly," replied Alison. "It is close on Christmas now, Grannie."

"Aye," said the old woman, "aye, and Christmas is a blessed, cheerful time. This is Tuesday; Friday will be Christmas Day. We must have a nice Christmas for the children, and we will too. We'll all be cheerful on Christmas Day. Jim might as well come, whatever answer you give him next week. He's all alone, poor lad, and he might come and join our Christmas dinner."

"But we haven't much money," said Alison. "We miss what I earned at the shop, don't we?"

"We miss it," said Grannie, "yes."

She shut up her lips very tightly. At this moment quick footsteps were heard running up the stairs, and the postman's sharp knock sounded on the little door. Alison went to get the letter. It was for Grannie, from a large West End shop; the name of the shop was written in clear characters on the flap of the envelope.

Grannie took it carefully between the thumb and finger of her left hand--she used her right hand now only when she could not help it. No one remarked this fact, and she hoped that no one noticed it. She unfastened the flap of the envelope slowly and carefully, and, taking the letter out, began to read it. It was a request from the manager that she would call at ten o'clock the following morning to take a large order for needlework which was required to be completed in a special hurry. Grannie laid the letter by Alison's side.

Alison read it. She had been accustomed to such letters coming from that firm to Grannie for several years. Such letters meant many of the comforts which money brings; they meant warm fires, and good meals, and snug clothes, and rent for the rooms, and many of the other necessaries of life.

"Well," said the girl, in a cheery tone, "that's nice. You have nearly finished the last job, haven't you, Grannie?"

"No, I aint," said Grannie, with a sort of gasp in her voice.

"I thought I saw you working at it every day."