"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."