"And what does your father do?"
He crept nearer and nearer to the window.
"Oh, father's gone to heaven, you know, sir. He's going to stop there always."
"Does your mother—er—wash or char or anything?"
"Oh no, sir; mother's a real lady."
Mr. Tom Morgan—for that was his name—smiled.
"Now show me your hands. Why, they are quite clean! There, give me one, and now march along with me."
Jack drew back hesitatingly.