want, ma'am. I'm in absolute want. I've not come,” said Johnny, hurriedly, anxious that he should not be misunderstood, “I've not come, ma'am, to mention that in the hopes that your kindness will immediately—will immediately—” (and he paused for a way of expressing it, and then added triumphantly) “will immediately put me right. God forbid. But if you would kindly put me or my wife (she's a young woman still) in the way of earning a livelihood—we don't care how humble it is, or how hard the work–we shall be deeply grateful.”
“Is that all?” said Mrs. Pintle, with a cold official air which did not promise well.
“I've no more to say, ma'am,” added he, “except that I've been living in a sort of way, on charity mostly, for the last six weeks. I've tried to get work, and failed. I don't know how it is, but I've failed. I'm not young, ma'am, but I've got plenty of work left in me, if I could only find some one who wants it.”
“That is all, I presume?”
“That is all, ma'am.”
"Then listen to me. My husband made a will—you know that?”
Poor Johnny knew it perfectly well. It had been the leading fact in his thoughts for weeks past, and there was no chance of his forgetting it. So he bowed.
“Very good. You know that my husband made a will. He placed it under your care. He gave it to you on the 22nd December. He died at midnight on the 24th. No will was to be found on the night of the 24th, and you have been unable or unwilling to produce it since.
