grind her poor. That is the reason why she is a power in Plaistow.
I laughed and said cheerfully: "The contributions of bad lots thankfully received, eh? Well, I've brought you some more—four thousand pounds odd."
"You're joking!" she cried in a scared voice.
"Joking?" I said. "Here are the good, gray notes. And I pulled them out and laid them on the table.
She stared at them, open-mouthed, the color fading out of her plump, red face. Then to my horror she burst into tears and fairly howled—just like a crying child.
"F-f-four—thousand—p-p-pounds!" she stammered. "It's—it's—a gift from heaven! Oh, the children! The children!"
I could not connect Honest John Driver with heaven, though he was a Whole-Hog Wapshot. But then the sum was hardly his gift.
I said: "Come, come, don't break down like that. It's a contribution from four philanthropists of my acquaintance."
Then I let her howl.
She pulled herself together presently, and was once more the composed, capable woman.
Then she wanted to thank me, but I said: "Look here, you've given twenty-five years of your life to the children. Do you think you ought to be
