"I don't mind tellin' you," she said, "that there is a child of that name in the 'ouse, a young girl, at least. Though I don't rightly know her age, I take her for fourteen or fifteen."
The old man seemed to consult his recollections.
"If it's any one I'm thinking of," he said slowly, "she can't be quite as old as that."
The woman's face changed; she looked away for a moment.
"Well, as I was sayin', I don't rightly know her age. Any way, I'm responsible for her. I've been a mother to her, an' a good mother—though I say it myself—these six years or more. I look on her now as a child o' my own. I don't know who you may be, mister. P'r'aps you've come from abroad?"
"Yes, I have. There's no reason why I shouldn't tell you that I'm trying to find any of my kin that are still alive. There was a married son of mine that once lived somewhere about here. His name was Joseph James Snowdon. When I last heard of him,
