"Yes, yes," the man said, slowly; and he was twisting about the cap that he held in his hand.
"And she gave you her portrait. Well, I am glad you knew you were not fit to retain such a gift. A young lady like that does not give her portrait to be taken into public-houses—"
"No more—do not say any more, little father," Kirski said, though in the same humble way. "It is useless."
"Useless?"
"I will not go back to any public-house—never."
"So you said to me four days ago," Edwards answered.
"This time it is true," he said, though he did not lift his bleared eyes. "To-morrow I will take back the portrait, little father; it shall remain with me, in my room. I do not go back to any public-house, I shall be no more trouble." Then he said, timidly raising his eyes, "Does she weep—that beautiful one?"
"Yes, no doubt," said Edwards, hastily, and in some confusion. "Is it not natural? But you must not say a word about it; it is a secret. Think of it, and what one has to suffer in this world, and then ask yourself if you will add to the trouble of one who has been so kind to you. Now do I understand you aright? Is it a definite promise this time?"
"This time, yes, little father. You will have no more need to complain of me, I will not add to any one's trouble. To-morrow—no, to-night I take back the portrait; it is sacred; I will not add to any one's trouble."
There was something strange about the man's manner, but Edwards put it down to the effects of drink, and was chiefly