Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles

When everyone had assured Mrs. Bindle, in answer to her pressing invitation to refresh themselves still further, that they "really couldn't, not if she were to pay them," she turned once more to Mr. Hearty for the necessary encouragement to start another carol.

Their first effort, however, clearly showed that Mrs. Bindle's refreshments had taken the edge off their singing. Miss Stitchley had lost much of her shrillness, Mrs. Bindle was less sharp and Mr. Hearty more woolly. Mr. Dykes's boom was but a wraith of its former self, proving the truth of Mrs. Dykes's laughing remark that if he ate so many of Mrs. Bindle's sausage-rolls he wouldn't be able to sing at all. Only Miss Death was up to form, her shrill soprano still cleaving the atmosphere like a javelin.

As the last chords of the carol died away, the concertina in the kitchen took up the running, followed a minute later by the same voice as before, singing nasally about the adventures of a particularly rollicking set of boon-companions who knew neither care nor curfew.

At the first sound, Mrs. Bindle moved swiftly to the door, where she paused uncertainly. She was in a quandary. Her conception of good manners did not admit of a hostess leaving her guests; still something had to be done.

At the conclusion of the verse the voice ceased; but the concertina wailed on. Mrs. Bindle drew breath. Her guests gazed at one another in a dazed sort of way. Then with a crash came the chorus, rendered with enthusiasm:

 
We'll all roll 'ome, we'll all roll 'ome,
For 'ome's the only place for weary men like us,
We'll all roll 'ome, we'll all roll 'ome,
For we 'aven't got the money to pay for a bus.
For it's only 'alf-past two,
An' it won't be three just yet.
So we'll all roll 'ome, we'll all roll 'ome,
An' lay down in the passage to be out of the wet.
 

The applause that followed was annihilating. Accompanying it again was the curious banging sound which Mrs. Bindle had noticed before. She was sure she recognised amid the cries of approval, the sound of a woman's voice. That decided her. She had already noted the absence of Mrs. Hearty and Mrs. Stitchley.

Without so much as an apology to her guests, who stood still gazing blankly at one another, Mrs. Bindle slipped out into the passage, closing the door behind her, much to the disappointment of the others.

A moment later she threw open the kitchen door, conscious that one of the most dramatic moments of her life was at hand.

Through a grey film of tobacco smoke she saw half-a-dozen men, one seated on the floor, another on the fender, and two on the table. All were smoking.

About the room were dotted bottles and various drinking vessels, mostly cups, whilst on the mantelpiece were Bindle's white cuffs, discarded on account of their inconvenient habit of slipping off at every movement of his hands.

Mrs. Hearty was seated in front of the dresser, holding a glass of beer in one hand and beating her breast with the other, whilst opposite to her sat Mrs. Stitchley, one hand still clutching the top of her stay-busk, an idiotic smirk upon her moist face.

As Mrs. Bindle gazed upon the scene, she was conscious of a feeling of disappointment; no one seemed to regard her presence as any deviation from the normal. Mrs. Stitchley looked up and nodded. Bindle deliberately avoided her eye.

Mrs. Bindle's attention became focussed upon the man seated on her fender. In his hands he grasped a concertina, before him were stretched a pair of thin legs in tight blue trousers. Above a violent blue necktie there rose a pasty face, terminating in a quiff of amazing dimensions, which glistened greasily in the gaslight. His heavy-lidded eyes were half-closed, whilst in his mouth he held a cigarette, the end of which was most unwholesomely chewed. His whole demeanour was that of a man who had not yet realised that the curtain had risen upon a new act in the drama.

As Mrs. Bindle appeared at the kitchen door, the concertina once more began to speak. A moment later the musician threw back his head and gave tongue, like a hound baying at the moon:

 
For I love my mother, love 'er with all my 'eart,
I can see 'er now on the doorstep, the day we 'ad to part.
A man that's got a tanner, can always get a wife,
But a mother is just a treasure that comes once in a life.
 

"Now then, ladies and gents, chorus if you please," he cried.

They did please, and soon Mrs. Bindle's kitchen echoed with a full-throated rendering of:

 
We all love mother, love her all the time,
For there ain't no other who seems to us the same.
From babyhood to manhood, she watches o'er our lives,
For it's mother, mother, mother, bless the dear old name.
 

It was a doleful refrain, charged with cockney melancholy; yet there could be no doubt about the enthusiasm of the singers. Mrs. Hearty spilled beer over her blue satin bosom, as a result of the energy with which she beat time; Mrs. Stitchley's hand, the one not grasping her stay-busk, was also beating time, different time from Mrs. Hearty's, whilst two light-coloured knees rose and fell with the regularity of piston-rods, solving for Mrs. Bindle the mystery of the sounds like the tossing about of bricks she had heard in the parlour.

Ginger was joining in the chorus!

As the singer started the second verse, Mrs. Bindle was conscious that someone was behind her. She turned to find Miss Stitchley standing at her shoulder. A moment later she realised that the little passage was overflowing with carol-singers.

Still she made no sign, not even when Miss Stitchley slipped past her and took up a position behind her mother's chair. Mrs. Bindle realised that she was faced with a delicate situation.

The second chorus still further complicated matters. Mrs. Bindle was sure she heard the haunting refrain mumbled from behind her. She turned quickly; but treason came from the other direction. Suddenly Miss Stitchley burst into song, and the passage, throwing aside its hesitation, joined in, softly it is true, still it joined in.

"Come in, everybody!" cried Mrs. Stitchley, when the chorus ceased, momentarily forgetful that it was Mrs. Bindle's kitchen.

"Ain't 'e clever," she added, looking admiringly at the musician, who glanced up casually at the mistress of the house. Art Wiggins was accustomed to feminine worship and unlimited beer; he regarded them as the natural tributes to his genius.

"Come in, the 'ole lot," cried Bindle cheerily, as he proceeded to unscrew the stopper of a bottle. "'Ave a wet, Art," he cried, addressing the vocalist. "You deserves it."

The remainder of the parlour-party filtered into the kitchen, and Mrs. Bindle realised the anguish of a Louis XVIII. Her legions had gone over to the enemy.

"Now this," remarked Mrs. Stitchley to Ginger a quarter-of-an-hour later, "is wot I calls a cosy evenin'."

To which Ginger grumbled something about not "'oldin' wiv women."

Art Wiggins was the hero of the occasion. He smoked halves of endless cigarettes, chewing the remainder; he drank beer like a personified Sahara, and a continuous stream of song flowed from his lips.

When at length he paused to eat, Mrs. Stitchley took up the running, urged on by Bindle, to whom she had confided that, as a girl, she had achieved what was almost fame with, "I Heard the Mavis Singing."

Art Wiggins did not know the tune; but was not to be deterred.

"Carry on, mother," he cried through a mouthful of ham-sandwich, "I'll pick it up."

The result was that Art played something strongly reminiscent of "Bubbles," whilst Mrs. Stitchley was telling how she had heard the mavis singing, to the tune of "Swanee." It was a great success until Art, weary of being so long out of the picture, threw "Bubbles," "Swanee," Mrs. Stitchley and the mavis overboard, and broke into a narrative about a young man of the name of Bert, who had become enamoured of a lady whose abbreviated petticoats made an excellent rhyme for the hero's name.

Mrs. Stitchley continued singing; but Art and Bert and the young lady of his choice, plus the concertina, left her little or no chance.

Like a figure of retribution Mrs. Bindle stood in the doorway, hard of eye and grim of lip, whilst just behind her Mr. Hearty picked nervously at the quicks of his fingers.

The other guests had proved opportunists. They had thrown over the sacred for the profane.

They came out particularly strong in the choruses.

III

"I never remember sich a evenin', my dear," was Mrs. Stitchley's valediction. "Stitchley'll be sorry 'e missed it," she added, indifferent to the fact that he had not been invited.

She was the last to go, just as she had been the first to arrive. Throughout the evening she had applauded every effort of Art Wiggins to add to what Bindle called "the 'armony of the evenin'."

"I have enjoyed it, Mrs. Bindle," said Miss Stitchley. "It was lovely."

With these encomiums ringing in her ears, and confirmed by what she herself had seen and heard, Mrs. Bindle closed the door and returned to the kitchen.

Bindle watched her uncertainly as she tidied up the place, whilst he proceeded to arrange upon the dresser the beer-bottles, sixteen in number and all empty.

As a rule he could anticipate Mrs. Bindle's mood; but to-night he was frankly puzzled. When he had asked Huggles and Wilkes to drop in "for a jaw," he had not foreseen that on the way they would encounter Ginger, his cousin Art Wiggins and two bosom friends of Art, nor could he be expected to foresee that Art went nowhere without his concertina. It was as much part of him as his elaborate quiff.

Their arrival had inspired Bindle with something akin to panic. For a long time he had striven to mute Art's musical restiveness. At length he had been over-ruled by the others, and Art had burst into song about Bill Morgan and his first wife's funeral. After that, as well try to dam Niagara as seal those lips of song.

Mrs. Bindle's grim silence as she moved about the kitchen disconcerted Bindle. He was busy speculating as to what was behind it all.

"Been a 'appy sort of evenin'," he remarked at length, as he proceeded to knock the ashes out of his pipe.

Mrs. Bindle made no response; but continued to gather together the plates and glasses and place them in two separate bowls in the sink.

"Seemed to enjoy theirselves," he ventured a few minutes later. "Joined in the choruses too."

Bindle's remark was like a shot fired at a waterspout, Mrs. Bindle's wrath burst its bounds and engulfed him.

"One of these days you'll kill me," she shrilled, dropping into a chair, "and then p'raps you'll be 'appy."

"Wot 'ave I done now?" he enquired.

"You've made me ashamed of you," she stormed. "You've humiliated me before all those people. What must they think, seein' me married to one who will suffer unto the third and fourth generation and – "

"But I can't – "

"You will and you know it," she cried. "Look at the men you 'ad 'ere to-night. You never been a proper 'usband to me. Here have I been toiling and moiling, inching and pinching, working my fingers to the bone for you, and then you treat me like this."

Bindle began to edge almost imperceptibly towards the door.

"See how you've humiliated me," her voice began to quaver. "What will they say at the Chapel? They know all about you, whistling on Sundays and spending your time in public-houses, while your wife is working herself to skin an' bone to cook your meals and mend your clothes. What'll they say now they've seen the low companions you invite to your home? They'll see how you respect your wife."

Still Bindle made no retort; but in a subdued murmur hummed "Gospel Bells," Mrs. Bindle's favourite hymn, which he used as a snake-charmer uses a flute.

"You're glad, I know it," she continued, exasperated by his silence. "Glad to see your wife humiliated. Look at you now! You're glad." Her voice was rising hysterically. "One of these days I shall go out and never return, and then you'll be – "

Like a tornado the emotional super-storm burst, and Mrs. Bindle was in the grip of screaming hysterics.

She laughed, she cried, she exhorted, she reproached. Everything evil that had ever happened to her, or to the universe, was directly due to the blackness of Bindle's heart and the guiltiness of his conscience. He was the one barrier between her and earthly heaven. He had failed where Mr. Hearty had succeeded. She poured upon him a withering stream of invective, – and she did it at the top of her voice.

At first Bindle stared; then he gazed vaguely about him. He made a sudden dive for the cupboard, rummaged about until he found the vinegar-bottle. Pouring some out into a saucer, he filled it up with water and returned to where Mrs. Bindle sat, slopping the liquid as he went.

Mrs. Bindle was now engaged in linking him up with Sodom and Gomorrah, the fate that befell Lot's wife and Dr. Crippen. Then, with a final scream, she slipped from her chair to the floor, where she lay moaning and sobbing.

With an earnest, anxious look in his eyes, Bindle knelt beside her and from the saucer proceeded to sprinkle her generously with vinegar and water, until in odour she resembled a freshly-made salad.

When he had sprinkled the greater part of the contents of the saucer on to her person, he sat back on his heels and, with grave and anxious eyes, regarded her as a boy might who has lighted the end of a rocket and waits expectantly to see the result.

Gradually the storm of emotion died down and finally ceased. He still continued to gaze fixedly at Mrs. Bindle, convinced that vinegar-and-water was the one and only cure for hysterics.

Presently, she straightened herself. She moved, then struggling up into a sitting position, she looked about her. The unaccustomed smell assailed her nostrils she sniffed sharply two or three times.

"What have you been doing?" she demanded.

"I been bringin' you to," he said, his forehead still ribbed with anxiety.

"Oh! you beast, you!" she moaned, as she struggled to her feet. "You done it on purpose."

"Done wot on purpose?" he enquired.

"Poured vinegar all over me and soaked me to the skin. You've spoilt my dress. You – " and with a characteristically sudden movement, she turned and fled from the room and upstairs, banging the door with a ferocity that shook the whole house.

"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered. "An' me thinkin' she'd like me to bring 'er round," and he slipped out into the parlour, which wore a very obvious morning-after-the-party aspect. His object was to give Mrs. Bindle an opportunity of returning. He knew her to be incapable of going to bed with her kitchen untidy.

He ate a sausage-roll and a piece of the admonitory jam-tart, listening keenly for sounds of Mrs. Bindle descending the stairs. Finally he seated himself on the stamped-plush couch and absent-mindedly lighted his pipe.

Presently he heard a soft tread upon the stairs, as if someone were endeavouring to descend without noise. He sighed his relief.

Ten minutes later he rose and stretched himself sleepily. There were obvious sounds of movement in the kitchen.

"Now if I wasn't the bloomin' coward wot I am," he remarked, as he took a final look round, "I'd light them two candles; but I ain't got the pluck."

With that he turned out the gas and closed the door.

"You take those bottles into the scullery and be quick about it," was Mrs. Bindle's greeting as he entered the kitchen.

She fixed her eye on the platoon of empty beer-bottles that Bindle had assembled upon the dresser.

He paused in the act of digging into his pipe with a match-stick. He had been prepared for the tail-end of a tornado, and this slight admonitory puff surprised him.

"Well! did you hear?"

Without a word the pipe was slipped into his pocket, and picking up a brace of bottles in either hand he passed into the scullery.

As he did so a strange glint sprang into Mrs. Bindle's eyes. With a panther-like movement she dashed across to the scullery door, slammed it to and turned the key. A second later the kitchen was in darkness, and Mrs. Bindle was on her way upstairs to bed.

The continuous banging upon the scullery door as she proceeded leisurely to undress was as sweet music to her ears.

That night Bindle slept indifferently well.

CHAPTER IV
THE COMING OF JOSEPH THE SECOND

"Why can't you drink your tea like a Christian?" Mrs. Bindle hurled the words at Bindle as if she hoped they would hit him.

He gazed at her over the edge of the saucerful of tea, which he had previously cooled by blowing noisily upon it. A moment later he proceeded to empty the saucer with a sibilant sound suggestive of relish. He then replaced it upon the table.

"Might as well be among pigs, the way you behave at table," she snapped and, as if to emphasise her own refinement in taking liquids, she lifted her cup delicately to her lips, the little finger of her right hand crooked at an awkward angle.

Bindle leaned slightly towards her, his hand to his ear. Ignoring his attitude, she replaced the cup in the saucer.

"You done that fine, Mrs. B. I didn't 'ear a sound," and he grinned in that provocative manner which always fanned the flame of her anger.

"Pity you don't learn yourself, instead of behaving as you do."

"But 'ow am I to know 'ow a Christian drinks?" he demanded, harking back to Mrs. Bindle's remark. "There's 'Earty now, 'e's a Christian; but he sucks in 'is whiskers as if 'e was 'ungry."

"Oh! don't talk to me," was the impatient response, as she proceeded to pour herself out another cup of tea.

"Wotjer marry me for, then? I told you I was always chatty at breakfast."

"Don't be disgusting!" she cried angrily. He stared at her in genuine astonishment. "You know I never allowed you to say such things to me before we were married."

"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered as he pushed across his cup that it might be refilled.

"Millie's coming this afternoon."

"Millie!" he cried, his face beaming. "She all right again?"

"Don't be disgusting," she said.

"Disgustin'," he repeated vaguely. Then understanding came to him.

Millie Dixon, née Hearty, had, some weeks previously, presented her husband with "a little Joe." These had been her first words to Charley Dixon when he, still partially in the grip of the terror through which he had passed, had been taken by the nurse to be introduced to his son and heir, whilst a pale, tired Millie smiled bravely up at him.

To Mrs. Bindle the very mention of the word "babies" in mixed company was an offence. The news that he was an uncle had reached Bindle from Mrs. Hearty, Mr. Hearty sharing his sister-in-law's views upon reticence in such delicate and personal matters.

"She goin' to bring it with 'er?" Bindle enquired eagerly; but Mrs. Bindle, anticipating such a question, had risen and, going over to the sink, had turned on the tap, allowing the question to pass in a rushing of water.

"Funny feelin' like that about babies," he muttered as he rose from the table, his meal completed. "I suppose that's why she wouldn't let me keep rabbits."

"Charley's coming in later; he's going to mend Aunt Anne's musical-box," was Mrs. Bindle's next announcement.

Bindle whistled incredulously.

"What's the matter now?"

"You ain't goin' to trust 'im with Ole Dumb Abraham, are you?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"And why not, pray?" she challenged. "Millie says Charley is very clever at mending things, and it's never played."

Bindle said nothing. The musical-box had been left to Mrs. Bindle by "poor Aunt Anne" – Mrs. Bindle referred to all dead relatives as "poor"; it was her one unconscious blasphemy. Dumb Abraham, as Bindle called the relic, had always been the most sacred among Mrs. Bindle's household gods. It had arrived dumb, and dumb it had remained, as she would never hear of it leaving the house to be put in order.

If Bindle ever went into the parlour after dark, he was always told to be careful of Aunt Anne's musical box. Many a battle had been waged over its dumb ugliness. Once he had rested for a moment upon its glassy surface a half-smoked cigar, a thoughtless act which had resulted in one of the stormiest passages of their married life.

"Well!" challenged Mrs. Bindle, as he remained silent.

"I didn't say anythink," he mumbled, picking up his cap and making for the door, thankful that it was Saturday, and that he would be home in time to see his beloved niece.

That afternoon Bindle arrived home with his pockets bulging, and several parcels of varying sizes under his arm.

"What have you got there?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, who was occupied in spreading a white cloth upon the kitchen table.

"Oh! jest a few things for 'is Nibs," was the response.

"For who?"

"The nipper," he explained, as he proceeded to unburden himself of the parcels, laying them on the dresser.

"I wish you'd try and talk like a Christian," and she banged a metal tea-tray upon the table.

Bindle ignored her remark. He was engaged in taking from its wrappings a peculiarly hideous rag-doll.

Mrs. Bindle paused in her preparations to watch the operation.

"What's that for?" she demanded aggressively.

"Millie's kid," he replied, devoting himself to the opening of other packages, and producing a monkey-on-a-stick, an inexpensive teddy-bear, a jack-in-the-box and several metal animals, which on being blown through emitted strident noises.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, wasting money on hideous things like that. They'd frighten the poor child to death."

"Frighten 'im!" he cried. "These ain't goin' to frighten 'im. You wait an' 'ear wot 'e's got to say about 'em."

"You just clear those things out of my kitchen," was the uncompromising rejoinder. "I won't have the poor child sent into convulsions because you're a fool."

There was something in her voice which caused Bindle meekly to gather together the toys and carry them out of the kitchen and upstairs, where he placed them in a drawer devoted entirely to his own possessions.

"Well, I'm blowed," he murmured, as he laid them one beside another. "And me a-thinkin' they'd make 'im laugh;" with that he closed the drawer, determined that, at least, Millie should see the toys that were as much a tribute to her as to her offspring.

"Fancy little Millikins 'avin' a kid all of 'er own," he muttered, as he descended the stairs, "'er wot I used to dangle on my knee till she crowed again. Well, well," he added as he opened the kitchen door, "we ain't none of us gettin' younger."

"Wot's that?" enquired Mrs. Bindle.

"Merely a sort o' casual remark that none of us ain't puttin' back the clock."

Mrs. Bindle sniffed disdainfully, and busied herself with preparations for tea.

"Why didn't you tell me before that Millikins was comin'?" he enquired.

"Because you're never in as any other decent husband is."

He recognised the portents and held his peace.

When Mrs. Bindle was busy, her temper had a tendency to be on what Bindle called "the short side," and then even her favourite hymn, "Gospel Bells," frequently failed to stem the tide of her wrath.

"Ain't we goin' to 'ave tea in the parlour?" he enquired presently, as Mrs. Bindle smoothed the cloth over the kitchen table.

"No, we're not," she snapped, thinking it unnecessary to add that Millie had particularly requested that she might have it "in your lovely kitchen," because she was "one of the family."

Although Bindle infinitely preferred the kitchen to that labyrinth of furniture and knick-knacks known as the parlour, he felt that the occasion demanded the discomfort consequent upon ceremony. He was, however, too wise to criticise the arrangement; for Mrs. Bindle's temper and tongue were of a known sharpness that counselled moderation.

She had made no mention of the time of Millie's arrival, and Bindle decided not to take the risk of enquiring. He contented himself with hovering about, getting under Mrs. Bindle's feet, as she expressed it, and managing to place himself invariably in the exact spot she was making for.

If he sat on a chair, Mrs. Bindle seemed suddenly to discover that it required dusting. If he took refuge in a corner, Mrs. Bindle promptly dived into it with an "Oh! get out of my way, do," and he would do a swift side-step, only to make for what was the high-road of her next strategic move.

"Why don't you go out like you always do?" she demanded at one point.

"Because Millikins is comin'," he replied simply.

"Yes, you can stay at home for – when somebody's coming," she amended, "but other days you leave me alone for weeks together."

"But when I do stay at 'ome you 'ustles me about like a stray goat," he complained, only just succeeding in avoiding a sudden dash on Mrs. Bindle's part.

"That's right, go on. Blame everything on to me," she cried, as she made a swift dive for the stove, and proceeded to poke the fire as if determined to break the fire-brick at the back. "If you'd only been a proper 'usband to me I might have been different."

Bindle slipped across the kitchen and stepped out into the passage. Here he remained until Mrs. Bindle suddenly threw open the kitchen door.

"What are you standing there for?" she demanded angrily.

"So as not to get in the way," was the meek reply.

"You want to be able to tell Millie that you were turned out of the kitchen," she stormed. "I know you and your mean, deceitful ways. Well, stay there if you like it!" and she banged the door, and Bindle heard the key turn in the lock.

"There's one thing about Mrs. B.," he remarked, as he leaned against the wall, "she ain't dull."

When at length the expected knock came, it was Mrs. Bindle who darted out and opened the door to admit Millie Dixon, carrying in her arms the upper end of what looked like a cascade of white lace.

A sudden fit of shyness seized Bindle, and he retreated to the kitchen; whilst aunt and niece greeted one another in the passage.

"Where's Uncle Joe?" he heard Millie ask presently.

"I'm 'ere, Millikins," he called-out, "cookin' the veal for that there young prodigal."

A moment later Millie, flushed and happy, fluttered into the room, still holding the cascade of lace.

"Darling Uncle Joe," she cried, advancing towards him.

He took a step backwards, a look of awe in his eyes, which were fixed upon the top of the cascade.

"Aren't you going to kiss me, Uncle Joe?" she asked, holding up her face.

"Kiss you, my dear, why – " Bindle was seized with a sudden huskiness in his voice, as he leaned forward gingerly and kissed the warm red lips held out to him.

"Is that It?" he asked, looking down with troubled eyes at Millie's burden.

"This is Little Joe," she said softly, the wonder-light of motherhood in her eyes, as she placed one foot on the rail of a chair to support her precious burden, thus releasing her right hand to lift the veil from a red and puckered face, out of which gazed a pair of filmy blue eyes.

"Ooooooosssss." Instinctively Bindle drew a deep breath as he bent a few inches forward.

For fully a minute he stood absorbing all there was to be seen of Joseph the Second.

"'E ain't very big, is 'e?" he enquired, raising his eyes to Millie's.

"He's only six weeks old," snapped Mrs. Bindle, who had followed Millie into the kitchen and now stood, with ill-concealed impatience, whilst Bindle was gazing at the infant. "What did you expect?" she demanded.

"Don't 'e look 'ot?" said Bindle at length, his forehead seamed with anxiety.

"Hot, Uncle Joe?" enquired Millie, unable to keep from her voice a tinge of the displeasure of a mother who hears her offspring criticised.

"I mean 'e don't look strong," he added hastily, conscious that he had said the wrong thing.

"Don't be silly, Uncle Joe, he's just a wee little baby, aren't you, bootiful boy?" and she gazed at the red face in a way that caused Bindle to realise that his niece was now a woman.

"'E's the very spit of 'is old uncle, ain't 'e?" and he turned to Mrs. Bindle for corroboration.

She ignored the remark; but Millie smiled sympathetically.

"I 'ad a takin' way with me when I was a little 'un," continued Bindle reminiscently. "Why, once I was nearly kissed by a real lady – one with a title, too."

"Oh! do tell me, Uncle Joe," cried Millie, looking at him with that odd little lift of the brows, which always made Charley want to kiss her. She had heard the story a score of times before.

"Well, 'er 'usband was a-tryin' to get into Parliament, an' 'is wife, wot was the lady, came round a-askin' people to vote for 'im. Seein' me in my mother's arms, she says, 'Wot a pretty child.' You see, Millikins, looks was always my strong point," and he paused in the narrative to grin.

"Then she bends down to kiss me," he continued, "an' jest at that moment wot must I go and do but sneeze, an' that's 'ow I missed a kiss an' 'er 'usband a vote."

"Poor Uncle Joe," laughed Millie, making a little motion with her arms towards Mrs. Bindle.

Without a word, Mrs. Bindle took the precious bundle of lace, out of which two filmy eyes gazed vacantly. With a swaying movement she began to croon a meaningless tune, that every now and then seemed as if it might develop into "Gospel Bells"; yet always hesitated on the brink and became diverted into something else.

The baby turned on her a solemn, appraising look of interrogation, then, apparently approving of the tune, settled down comfortably to enjoy it.

Bindle regarded Mrs. Bindle with wonder. Into her eyes had crept a something he had only once seen there before, and that was on the occasion he had brought Millie to Fenton Street when she left home.

Seeing that "Baby" was content, Millie dropped into a chair with a tired little sigh, her eyes fixed upon the precious bundle of lace containing what would one day be a man.

Mrs. Bindle continued to sway and croon in a way that seemed to Little Joe's entire satisfaction.

"Aren't you glad we called him after you, Uncle Joe?" said Millie, tearing her eyes with difficulty from the bundle and turning them upon Bindle.

"Yer aunt told me," he said simply.

"Oh! I do hope he'll grow up like you, Uncle Joe, dear Uncle Joe," she cried, clasping her hands in her earnestness, as if that might help to make good her wish.

"Like me?" There was wonder and incredulity in his voice.

"Charley says he must grow up like you, darling Uncle Joe. You see – " She broke off as Bindle suddenly turned and, without a word, made for the door. A moment later it banged-to behind him arousing Mrs. Bindle from her pre-occupation.