"I don't know," replied Matthew. "I never spoke to the girl in my life."
"What's her name?"
"She calls herself Kate Donaldson. But don't you trouble your head about her. She's no good, I tell you, and will never be any better."
It was a harsh speech, and the time came when Matthew Reardon was very sorry that he had ever made it. These hard speeches are almost sure to come home to us at some time or another.
"Poor thing!" repeated the old clerk, compassionately. "What a comfort it is to know that nothing is impossible to God. Good day, Reardon; I'll come in and see your children some day soon."
Mrs. Reardon looked up anxiously as her husband entered. She always felt uneasy now if he remained away longer than was absolutely necessary, which indeed seldom happened, time being, to use her own words, as good as money to the poor.
"It was that old Marshall," said he, in answer to her glance. "What a fellow he is for talking—not but what I think that he means what he says. He's coming here one of these evenings."
"What is he coming for?" asked Mrs. Reardon. "We don't want visitors."
"So I told him," replied her husband. "But he wished to see the children. He called last night while we were out and heard them singing."
"Poor old gentleman!" said the mother. "They do sing very nicely sometimes. He's very welcome to come when he likes."