'14 Paradise-row, Windmill-street.
'Emma Carey,--Personally you will have not the slightest knowledge of me, for I do not think you ever set eyes on me; but you will know my name. I was not aware until a few days ago that your husband was dead. I am poor, but not as poor as you are. I offer you and your boy a home. You can both come and live with me if you like. If you decide to come, you must not expect much. I am not a pleasant character, and my disposition is not amiable. But the probability is, if you accept my offer, that you and your boy will have regular meals, such as they are. I keep a shop; you can help me in it. You can come at once if you like--this very day. I don't suppose it will take you long to pack up.
'Bryan Carey.'
I started when I heard the name, for it was our own.
'It is from your uncle Bryan,' said my mother; 'your dear father's elder brother, who disappeared many years ago.'
'I thought he was dead, mother.'
'We all supposed so, never having heard from him.'
'Was he nice, mother?'
'I have no idea, child; I never saw him. But he says that he is neither amiable nor pleasant.'
Two words in the letter had especially attracted my attention.