CHAPTER III


Upon a certain stormy day in the great northern city, preparing for what
he regarded as his career, James sat in the same large, shabbily furnished
room where his mother had once visited him--half-way up the hideously long
spiral stair of an ancient house, whose entrance was in a narrow close. The
great clock of a church in the neighbouring street had just begun to strike
five of a wintry afternoon, dark with snow, falling and yet to fall: how
often in after years was he not to hear the ghostly call of that clock, and
see that falling snow!--when a gentle tap came to his door, and the girl I
have already mentioned came in with a tray and the materials for his most
welcomed meal, coffee with bread and butter. She set it down in a silence
which was plainly that of deepest respect, gave him one glance of devotion,
and was turning to leave the room, when he looked up from the paper he was
writing, and said--

"Don't be in such a hurry, Isy. Haven't you time to pour out my coffee for
me?"

Isy was a small, dark, neat little thing, with finely formed features, and
a look of child-like simplicity, not altogether removed from childishness.
She answered him first with her very blue eyes full of love and trust, then
said--

"Plenty o' time, sir. What other have I to do than see that you be at your
ease?"