at work in his stall—the first as you go upon London Bridge. A low door at the right; traces of old red paint on the walls. It may have been two o'clock in the morning. There was fighting in the neighbourhood. The bullets flew whistling across the Thames. Suddenly there was a knock at the door of the stall, through which the mechanic's lamp cast a ray of light. He opened the door. A man whom he did not know stepped in. That man bore in his arms an infant in swaddling-clothes, terribly frightened and crying. The man placed the child on the table and said: "Here is a creature who has neither father nor mother." Then he went slowly forth and closed the door behind him. Gilbert, the mechanic, himself had neither father nor mother. He accepted the child, the orphan adopted the orphan. He took her in, watched over her, clothed her, fed her, brought her up, and loved her. He gave the whole of himself to that poor little creature whom the civil war cast into his stall. He forgot everything for her: his youth, his love-affairs, his recreations; he made of that child the sole object of his toil, of his affection, of his life; and so it has been for sixteen years. Gilbert, you are that mechanic; the child—
Gilbert.Was Jane. All that you say is true; but what is your object?
The Man.I forgot to say that there was a paper pinned to the child's clothes, on which these words were written: "Have pity on Jane."
Gilbert.They were written in blood. I have preserved that paper. I always have it upon me. But you are torturing me. Tell me, what is your object?
The Man.This. You see that I am acquainted
