The night was at an end. Milk-carts clattered in the streets; milkmen clattered on the stairs. Harry put out the single light that had been burning all night in the sober front of the many-windowed mansions; and in the early morning he took his father over the flat. The rooms had never seemed so few—so tiny. Mr. Ringrose made no remark until he was back in the only good one that the flat contained.
"And your mother has made shift here all these years!" he exclaimed then, and the remorse in his voice had never sounded so acute.
"Oh, no; we have only been here a year."
"Where were you before?"
"In a smaller flat downstairs."
"A smaller one than this? God forgive me! I was not prepared for much; but from what I read I did expect more than this!"
"From what you read?" cried Harry. "Read where?"
A new light shone in the father's face. "In some paragraphs I once stumbled across in some paper—I have them in my pocket at this moment!" said he. "Did you suppose I never saw your name in the papers, Harry? It has been my one link with you both. I saw it first by accident, and ever since I have searched for it, and sent for everything I could hear of that had your name to it. So I have always had good news of you; and sometimes between the lines I have thought I read good news of your mother too. God bless you ... God bless you ... for working for her ... and taking my place."
The old servant wept over her old master as though her heart would break with gladness. Her breakfast was a sorry thing, but no sooner was it on the table than she was sent down for a hansom, and she was still whistling when the gentlemen rushed after her and flew to find one for themselves. It was ten minutes to eight, and their train left Victoria at ten minutes past.