But Hope, who made it his business to instruct her, and not deceive her as some thoughtless parents do, out of fun, the wretches, told her, gently, they were not swans, but ships.

She was a little disappointed at that, but inquired what they were doing.

“Darling,” said he, “they are going to some other land, where honest, hard-working people can not starve, and, mark my words, darling,” said he—­she pricked her little ears at that—­“you and I shall have to go with them, for we are poor.”

“Oh,” said little Grace, impressed by his manner as well as his words, and nodded her pretty head with apparent wisdom, and seemed greatly impressed.

Then her father fed her with bread and milk, and afterward laid her on the bed, and asked her whether she loved him.

“Dearly, dearly,” said she.

“Then if you do,” said he, “you will go to sleep like a good girl, and not stir off that bed till I come back.”

“No more I will,” said she.

However, he waited until she was in an excellent condition for keeping her promise, being fast as a church.

Then he looked long at her beautiful face, wax-like and even-tinted, but full of life after her meal, and prayed to Him who loved little children, and went with a beating heart to Mr. Bartley’s office.

But in the short time, little more than an hour and a half, which elapsed between Hope’s first and second visit, some most unexpected and remarkable events took place.

Bartley came in from his child’s dying bed distracted with grief; but business to him was the air he breathed, and he went to work as usual, only in a hurried and bitter way unusual to him.  He sent out his clerk Bolton with some bills, and told him sharply not to return without the money; and whilst Bolton, so-called, was making his toilette in the lobby, his eye fell on his other clerk, Monckton.

Monckton was poring over the ledger with his head down, the very picture of a faithful servant absorbed in his master’s work.

But appearances are deceitful.  He had a small book of his own nestled between the ledger and his stomach.  It was filled with hieroglyphics, and was his own betting book.  As for his brown-study, that was caused by his owing L100 in the ring, and not knowing how to get it.  To be sure, he could rob Mr. Bartley.  He had done it again and again by false accounts, and even by abstraction of coin, for he had false keys to his employer’s safe, cash-box, drawers, and desk.  But in his opinion he had played this game often enough, and was afraid to venture it again so soon and on so large a scale.

He was so absorbed in these thoughts that he did not hear Mr. Bartley come to him; to be sure, he came softly, because of the other clerk, who was washing his hands and brushing his hair in the lobby.

So Bartley’s hand, fell gently, but all in a moment, on Monckton’s shoulder, and they say the shoulder is a sensitive part in conscious rogues.  Anyway, Monckton started violently, and turned from pale to white, and instinctively clapped both hands over his betting book.