As Johnny, with his chin tucked in and lips pouting, reclined in Betty’s lap, concentrating his blue eyes on the visitors and shading them from observation with a dimpled arm, old Betty took one of his fresh fat hands in her withered right, and fell to gently beating it on her withered left.

“Yes, ma’am. Concerning Johnny.”

“If you trust the dear child to me,” said Mrs. Boffin, with a face inviting trust, “he shall have the best of homes, the best of care, the best of education, the best of friends. Please God I will be a true good mother to him!”

“I am thankful to you, ma’am, and the dear child would be thankful if he was old enough to understand.” Still lightly beating the little hand upon her own. “I wouldn’t stand in the dear child’s light, not if I had all my life before me instead of a very little of it. But I hope you won’t take it ill that I cleave to the child closer than words can tell, for he’s the last living thing left me.”