"Alan Shipton."
The father had not gone, and the next letter was from the widow:—
"Dear Sir,—My husband is dead—almost his last words were, 'Will father come in time?'—he longed to see you once more. He suffered very much at the last, but he was very happy, and I look forward to meeting him again in the land where there is no more parting. I have moved to smaller rooms with my children, at No. 5 Crown Row, Islington, where I have taken the top flight in the house, and hope to find a lodger to take the one room which we shall not occupy. I shall be able to earn sufficient money, I hope, by dressmaking to support myself and my three youngest children—my eldest boy Alan has gone to sea. I wish I could think that my dear husband had your entire forgiveness.—I remain, sir, yours dutifully,
"Ellen Shipton."
The date of this letter was a year old, and the farmer had written underneath it, "Hypocrites! I know town folks better than they think!"
Why then was he reading it over? Why was he in this house under the name of Mr. Smith? Why had he after so many months come to seek out these unknown relations? It was because the old man's heart was lonely—because underneath his gruff exterior he had a kindly heart—because he longed to have some one who would care for him and comfort his old age. This was why he had left his country home to come up to the great city. He had determined to find out his son's family, with the purpose of adopting one of the children, if he found that the faults which he believed to be inherent in all children of the town were such as he could get rid of without much trouble to himself; but he thought it would be easier to watch them if they did not know who he was; for, as he said to himself, "they are quite cunning enough to deceive me—town children always are." And now having given you this little insight into the old man's mind, let us return to the widow's room and make acquaintance with her and her children.
"Mother," whispered Ellen, the little girl who had opened the door to the stranger, "is he really to be with us all day? How horrid it will be!"
"Hush, my dear; don't let us think of that, let us think of the money we shall get, and all the good it will do our little Maurice. Poor child! how pale he looks there on the rug!"
"He looks like father did," said Janet, the second daughter, who was cutting out the pattern by her mother's side. A shudder passed through Mrs. Shipton's frame, and for one moment she raised her hand to her face with an expression of pain.
"Janet, don't say that," whispered Ellen. "It hurts mother."