"Why, I never saw you before that I know of," interrupted the other, sharply; "so how do you suppose I should know your name? I told the child I knew her name was Matilda Coomber, for she is the very image of her mother when she was a girl, and she was my only daughter."
"Oh, sir, and you've come to fetch her!" gasped the fisherman.
The stranger took out his snuff-box, and helped himself to a pinch. "Well, I don't know so much about that," he said, cautiously; "I am her grandfather, and I thought, when I picked up that old newspaper the other day, and read about her being saved, I'd just like to come and have a look at her. I was pretty sure she was my Tilly's little one, by the description of the silver medal she wore, for I'd given it to her mother just before she ran away to get married to that sailor Coomber."
"Oh, sir, a sailor, and his name was Coomber! Where is he? What was he like?" asked the fisherman, eagerly.
"He was drowned before his wife died; she never held up her head afterwards, the people tell me. I never saw her after she was married, and swore I'd never help her or hers; but when she was dying she wrote and told me she was leaving a little girl alone in the world, and had left directions for it to be brought to me after her death. With this letter she sent her own portrait, and that of her husband and child, begging me to keep them for the child until she grew up. A day or two after came another letter, saying she was dead, and a neighbour was coming from Grimsby to London by ship, and would bring the child to me; but I never heard or saw anything of either, and concluded she was drowned, when, about a month ago, an old newspaper came in my way, and glancing over it, I saw the account of a little girl being saved from a wreck, and where she might be heard of. I went to the place, and they sent me here, and the minute I saw the child, I knew her for my Tilly's."
The old man had talked on, but Coomber had comprehended very little of what was said. He stood looking half-dazed for a minute or two after the stranger had ceased speaking. At length he gathered his wits sufficiently to say: "Have you got them pictures now?"
"Yes," said the old man, promptly, taking out his pocket-book as he spoke. "Here they are; I took care to bring 'em with me;" and he brought out three photographs.
Coomber seized one instantly. "It is him! It is my Jack!" he gasped. "Oh, sir, tell me more about him."
"I know nothing about him, I tell you," said the other, coldly; "I never saw or spoke to my daughter after she married him; but I'm willing to do something for the little child, seeing it was my girl's last wish."
"The child," repeated Coomber. "Do you mean to say little Tiny is my Jack's child?"