 think worse of him. Nobody ever had a kinder father,
and there's many a reason why he should be careful to pay the debt he owes.«
    Jane waited a moment, then again raised her eyes to him. It seemed as though
she would ask a question, and Sidney's grave attentiveness indicated a surmise
of what she was about to say. But her thought remained unuttered, and there was
a prolongation of silence.
    Of course they were both thinking of Clara. That name had never been spoken
by either of them in the other's presence, but as often as conversation turned
upon the Hewetts, it was impossible for them not to supplement their spoken
words by a silent colloquy of which Clara was the subject. From her grandfather
Jane knew that, to this day, nothing had been heard of Hewett's daughter; what
people said at the time of the girl's disappearance she had learned fully enough
from Clem Peckover, who even yet found it pleasant to revive the scandal, and by
contemptuous comments revenge herself for Clara's haughty usage in old days.
Time had not impaired Jane's vivid recollection of that Bank-holiday morning
when she herself was the first to make it known that Clara had gone away. Many a
time since then she had visited the street whither Snowdon led her - had turned
aside from her wonted paths in the thought that it was not impossible she might
meet Clara, though whether with more hope or fear of such a meeting she could
not have said. When two years had gone by, her grandfather one day led the talk
to that subject; he was then beginning to change in certain respects the tone he
had hitherto used with her, and to address her as one who had outgrown
childhood. He explained to her how it came about that Sidney could no longer be
even on terms of acquaintance with John Hewett. The conversation originated in
Jane's bringing the news that Hewett and his family had at length left Mrs.
Peckover's house. For two years things had gone miserably with them, their only
piece of good fortune being the death of the youngest child. John was confirmed
in a habit of drinking. Not that he had become a brutal sot; sometimes for as
much as a month he would keep sober, and even when he gave way to temptation he
never behaved with violence to his wife and children. Still, the character of
his life had once more suffered a degradation, and he possessed no friends who
could be of the least use to him. Snowdon, for some reason of
