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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: The Lights of Home, an electronic edition
Author: Mathers, Helen, 1853-1920
Publisher: Hodder and Stoughton
Place published: London
Date: 1903
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Advert included in the front of Lyall's The Lights of Home.THE LIGHTS OF HOMEBy DAVID LYALLLONDON:HODDER AND
STOUGHTON27 PATERNOSTER
ROW1903Table of contents for  Lyall's The Lights of Home.Table of contents for  Lyall's The Lights of Home.Table of contents for  Lyall's The Lights of Home.A "WOMAN JOURNALIST"A "WOMAN JOURNALIST"THE BEGINNINGMY father was a doctor in a populous town in the Midlands. I, Marian East, was the second of a large family, and from my earliest years I seemed to understand that my father and mother were waging one long and desperate struggle with
 adverse circumstances. Looking back now through the light of my own experiences upon that far-off time, I know that my father was a bitterly disappointed man. He had gifts of a very high order, which the wretched drudgery of his life had crushed. Once he had been ambitious, but the sordid years had quenched all his early hopes, and I remember him only as a morose, taciturn, and somewhat unlovable man. My mother belonged to the great army of harassed and weary women, whom the burden of family cares drives into an early grave.It must not be supposed, however, that my childhood and youth were altogether devoid of brightness. In a large family there must of necessity be sufficient diversion even in the very contrasts of character to redeem existence from the commonplace. I had three sisters, and we were reared upon the old familiar conventional lines, uselessly and superficially educated and then allowed to drift aimlessly into domestic life, without any training to fit us for the discharge of even the humblest and simplest duty. My sisters did not trouble themselves about the condition of affairs, except in so far as it affected their dress allowance, but from the time that I could give a serious thought to life and its problems, I was in a state of the most bitter revolt against my own existence, against the whole chain of circumstances which made me what I was, a plain, uninteresting girl-child, with a thousand indescribable longings for which she could find no outlet.I used to drive my father sometimes on his rounds; I was fearless with horses, because I loved and understood them. One day, how well I remember it! as we drove together down a long hilly slope (before which the whole expanse of the Black Country appeared to lie like a wild and stormy sea), I ventured for the first time in my

life to give voice to the seething discontent in my heart."Father," I said, not timidly, but in a high, clear voice which betrayed no sign of my consuming nervousness, "don't you think it's about time some of us turned out to do something for ourselves?""Aye, what?" he asked in surprise; usually our drives were accomplished in silence, except perhaps for an occasional remark about the weather or the
 next place of call. I remember his look and expression yet as he turned his face enquiringly towards me. He was a very handsome man, and in happier circumstances would have made his mark both professionally and socially. I was proud of him too in an awed and secret manner, but there never had been the remotest possibility of that confidence between us, which is at once the recompense of parentage and the joy of the child; they who never taste it have missed one of the most exquisite joys of life. I grasped a tighter hold on Dobbin's reins, and I felt my heart go pit-a-pat as I proceeded to explain myself."There are too many of us at home, dad," I said, with a decision which amazed myself. "There is no need for us, and we ought to go out and do something. I, at least, intend to do so.""Oh, you do, do you?" he asked, and I detected an amused note in his voice. "And what is the plan of campaign, may I inquire?""I mean to be a journalist," I answered boldly, and my father gave a long low whistle of surprise."A journalist!" he echoed. "And, pray, what qualifications have you for this particular profession?""I have always been fond of writing," I said desperately, "and I have had lots of things accepted. Do you remember Grace Cardrew, who was at school at Wolverhampton with me?""I think I have seen her," my father made answer gravely. "Well, what about her?""She's in London now, living in a flat, and she has asked, me to go up and join her."There was a moment's silence. I felt my heart beat in the darkness."How old are you, Marian?" was the next unexpected question, put quite gravely, and I was relieved to hear that the note of amusement had gone out of his voice."I shall be twenty-four in June," I answered."Are you so old as that? Dear me, how the years slip by! But what is the matter, that you can't be as idle and as comfortable as your sisters appear to be at home?""Well, I can't bear it," I cried passionately. "I am so tired of the struggle, and it is not right that so many idle young women should be living off you.""Tired of it, are you, child?" my father asked softly. "God knows you can't be more tired of it than I; but you know that in August Rosamund will be married--at least I think your mother has told me that--then perhaps you would be of more use at home.""No, I shouldn't," I answered. "I am not domesticated, and besides, there are Kate and Lucy. Let me go, father; I shall never be happy until I have tried it.""But do you understand that I can't contribute a single penny towards your support?" he asked, "and that if you leave home of your own accord you take the consequences?""I am quite willing to risk it," I said, scarcely able to believe my own ears. I had expected nothing but the most strenuous opposition to my scheme. "Other women have succeeded, why not I?""If you have the brains and the will, I daresay you may succeed," my father said. "If I had had the money I should have made a doctor of you, but there, there is no use of harping on what

might have been. Thank God the struggle is nearly over.""What can you mean by talking like that, father?" I asked somewhat anxiously."I mean that I shall not live long," he answered, "and except for leaving you all in destitution I should not care how soon." He spoke with more feeling than I had given him credit for, and it seemed to me at that moment that for the first time I obtained a glimpse into the inner nature of the man."As I have told your mother," he went on pitilessly, "I am worth more to her dead than alive. She would have the house and the heavy insurance, and I daresay would manage to pull through. Expenses would be less, anyhow.""Father, what are you talking about?" I cried shrilly. "How dare you speculate like that!" He gave a queer little laugh which I did not soon forget."I am only joking, of course," he said. "Well, I do not in the least approve of this scheme of yours, in fact, I think it is the most unmitigated folly, but I have no objection to you going for six months to your friend Miss Cardrew. The experience won't do you any harm.""That's what I want, father," I said joyfully,

the matter was settled. His permission given nothing else mattered. My mother, whose feeble health had undermined any strength of will she might have possessed in earlier years, made no demur. My sisters and brothers expressed their surprise by shrugs of their shoulders and many jokes at my expense, but I cared nothing; my emancipation was at hand.On a bleak, stormy March afternoon I arrived at Euston, a nameless and unknown voyager upon an untried sea. Grace Cardrew knew the hour of my arrival, but she was not at the station to meet me, and when I reached the flat in the narrow Bloomsbury street I found the door locked and an envelope pinned against the door, on which was a message in Grace's handwriting to the effect that I would get the key from the porter, and could let myself in, as she did not expect to be home until eight o'clock. It was then only five. I was tired and cold and hungry, visions of a bright fire and a cosy chat with Grace over a refreshing cup of tea vanished as I entered the dark little house and stumbled about in search of a light. After considerable difficulty I managed, by the aid of the reflected light from the staircase, to find the matches and a candle, which Grace had evidently placed handily for me. Then I closed the door and

made a tour of the premises. I wondered how it could have been possible to plan or to build such small rooms. There were two, neither of them bigger than a good-sized dining table, and a microscopic scullery in which was a small gas stove. All was dark and cold and cheerless, so very poorly furnished too, I thought. Although I had not been accustomed to anything like luxury, our house at home had been large and roomy, and not destitute of comfort. I was dismayed when I saw how my trunk of moderate size seemed to block up the little hall, and I wondered where Grace could possibly keep her clothes. I remembered her as a girl with but little regard for dress, and the thought that flashed through me at the moment was that perhaps she had gone in for "rational" dress, which would of course much simplify the question of wardrobe accommodation. I laughed aloud as the vision of Grace in such a costume flashed before my eyes. As a girl she had been very tall, with a large loose figure difficult to dress at any time. I was short and squat, and, in my own estimation at least, altogether uninteresting. I sat down on my box in the little passage, and by the light of the flickering candle wondered what I should do with myself until eight o'clock. To sit there was impossible, and as I was now

feeling the pangs of hunger, I betook myself into the street to seek the friendly offices of some convenient tea-shop.A fine rain was now filtering through the foggy atmosphere. The streets were damp and greasy, and I experienced a depressing sense of loneliness and misery which caused me to gulp down something in my throat more than once.I remained out of doors until half-past seven, and then wended my way back to the flat. To my amazement, I arrived to find that some one had evidently invaded the rooms in my absence, and had lit a cheery bit of fire in the sitting-room. This made such a material difference to my surroundings that I felt correspondingly cheerful, and was therefore able to greet Grace Cardrew with a smile in which no trace of loneliness or home-sickness was to be found. I had not seen Grace for seven years, although I had been in constant communication with her. Now, seven years is a long time in a woman's life, and my surprise at the change in her appearance was so great that I could give it no voice. She did not exactly wear rational dress, but her attire was so extremely mannish as to give me a little shock. She wore a hard felt hat unadorned by quill or veil, and when she removed it presently, I saw that

her hair was quite short and parted at the side. She was undeniably handsome; even her hideous dress could not altogether conceal the fact. She had a strong, beautiful, intellectual face, clear flashing grey eyes, and a mouth at once tender and severe, if I may so put it. As she held my hands a moment in her own it was wholly tender, and I knew that a flood of girlish memory held her in thrall."Well, there you are," she said, "just the same odd little thing. I don't know whether to pity you or to be proud of your immense pluck.""Does it need so very much pluck then, Grace?" I asked, with all the awe of the novice in the presence of her superior."Ah, that you will find out," said Grace brusquely. "I was very sorry I could not meet you this afternoon, but I had a drawing-room meeting to attend in Belgravia, and the man whose speech I went to report did not get up till six o'clock. You look all right; I hope you have had something to eat.""I went out and had some tea," I answered, admiring Grace's every movement as she walked into the little bedroom and back again."We can go down to the dining-room presently and have a bit of dinner, and then we can talk over what is to be done."I was much interested in the picture presented by the common dining-room when we entered it. It was a large room and somewhat bare, yet not altogether cheerless, the floor dotted with many little tables, which were surrounded by women, mostly young like ourselves, although some were middle-aged and one or two elderly. I had never seen so many women gathered together in one place, and when I realised that each represented a separate, independent existence, without ties and apparently without the usual family obligations, I felt a vague sense of wonder stealing over me. This was part of the great life of London, and no insignificant or uninfluential part. These were women who had faced the problem of life for themselves and in many cases solved it. It had left its mark upon them inevitably; many of the faces were weary and care-lined, and some unspeakably sad, yet there was a bright alertness in the whole atmosphere of the place which had a buoyant effect upon my spirits. Here at least was no purposeless or useless life, a hive in which there were no drones.Grace did not speak much as we partook of our simple meal. She ate as she did most things, as if it were part of the day's work, to be got through as expeditiously as possible. The lack of leisure,

as I have amply proved, through course of time destroys the power to enjoy it. As for me, I felt but little inclination to talk; it was sufficient that first evening to observe.  In little more than half an hour we were back once more in the little sitting-room. I was surprised to see Grace take a piece of needlework from a work-bag behind the door."It is a piece of necessary mending I must do, my dear," she said, with a smile. "It will not interfere with our talk. I have no time to be idle when I am not asleep."I thought of the long lazy days at home, whose slow hours it had been the sole object of our lives to kill, and I felt a sudden qualm of fear lest I should have no part nor lot in an existence whose litany and watchword seemed to be incessant toil."I did not tell you very much in my letter," said Grace, "because it is not easy to explain everything, and I thought that the best thing would be for you to come up and make the experiment for yourself. I should not have asked you, only there was genuine power in those sketches of yours that appeared in the Westminster. If you can keep on like that, you'll do. Now, Marian, I'd like to hear what your own views are.""I haven't any," I made answer meekly, for 

indeed I felt I was a very poor small creature who nothing.So much the better for you," said Grace, nodding her head with a satisfied look. "I had views when I came, and I never did any good till I got rid of them. If you start minus views and take what turns up, you'll do.""Do you think anything will turn up?" I asked fearfully."We'll go out and seek it," answered Grace. "I've been making enquiries, and I think I can get an opening for you to do a London letter for some country papers. I had it myself for a year or two before other things crowded it out. I know they want somebody just at present, and I'll take you to see their representative to-morrow. It does well for practice, and one must begin somewhere. I suppose you are prepared for your own share of struggle and privation. The most of us have got to go through it, and the most of us are better for it, perhaps one or two are the worse.""Is it so hard then to make a living wage by journalism?" I asked.Grace nodded.Some day I will edify you with the record of my experiences, but not just yet; I won't take the gilt off the ginger-bread too soon. I am making

three hundred a year now, and I can afford to smile at the stony paths by which I have come. Have you any money, or is your father going to allow you anything?""No, he will allow me nothing. He gave me ten pounds, and told me that if I was making nothing when it was done I must just go home again.""Well, I hope you won't have to go home in that ignominious fashion," said Grace, with a smile."You can live here in the meantime, and your only expense will be your meals, which can be managed very economically if one knows how.""But I can't inflict myself on you, Grace," I said, "for more than a night or two at most. Why, there isn't room.""Oh, I daresay we can manage. I'll sleep on the sofa to-night.""If you do," I cried indignantly, "I will walk out this moment, Grace Cardrew, and never come in again. I will sleep on the sofa.""Oh, well, just as you like, but I thought it was only civil to offer you the bed," she answered, with a laugh, which showed her even white teeth and made her face very winning. We talked much more which I cannot here set down, and I lay down on the sofa that night, my mind a vague

chaos of hopes and fears. Grace Cardrew varnished nothing. I gathered from her speech that she had faced and conquered the bitterest problem of all, that of mere existence. That the past seven years had contained many dark passages I could readily gather, but she did not expatiate much upon them, and it was well. I am certain that had I known the half which I learned afterwards that Grace Cardrew had gone through, I should never have had the heart or courage to go on.It may be that in setting down these experiences, each one complete
in itself, I shall sound a note of timely warning or encouragement in
the ears of the great body of young women who are thirsting for a
career such as I took up, without the faintest idea of its trials and
temptations and discouragements. Gleams of sunshine and uplifting hope
I had indeed, else had I fainted and failed by the way.II
HER MARCHING ORDERSI WAS not unduly cast down by what Grace Cardrew had told me. The experience of another may have its uses for those essaying to travel by the same road, but it often acts as a spur rather than a brake. I was not successful in obtaining the post of which Grace had spoken. We called together at the office of the Western News next morning, only to learn that the post had been filled up by a junior member of their London staff."Well, well, no doubt there will be something else," said Grace cheerily. "You ought to be made of better stuff than to let one disappointment crush you. Well, I can't spare you any more time to-day. What are you going to do with yourself?""I don't know," I answered rather blankly, for the prospect of spending a whole day in London without a soul to speak to was rather appalling.We were standing on the pavement just outside

the office of the Western News in the Strand, and I shall never forget just how Grace looked at that particular moment, the last time I saw her in the full flush of health and strength. I thought I had never seen her strong, attractive face look more absolutely beautiful. The fresh morning air had given her cheeks the necessary touch of colour, her eyes were bright, her whole manner alert, vigorous, suggestive of full and throbbing life, yet before the day was over she was to close her eyes for ever on the mystery of earthly life, and to open them on the greater mystery of the Unseen."I have got a big day's work before me," she said briskly, "but I feel fit for it, very fit indeed. Unfortunately, however, I have not a single engagement in which I can ask you to join me. I cannot even meet you at lunch, for I am going into Surrey to interview Lady Pennefather for the Woman's Own, and I expect I shall have to lunch there, but I shall be home early, not later than half-past six. I have some work to do at home after dinner, but we can talk between whiles.""How I envy you, Grace!" I said quickly. "I wonder when I shall be in such request.""Oh, in due course, I have no doubt," answered Grace, "but patience is one of the virtues you must cultivate, in fact you cannot escape its cul-

tivation; it will be your daily portion, I expect, for the next few months, unless there should be some unexpected turn of the tide in your affairs.""How well you are looking, Grace!" I exclaimed involuntarily. "I do wish I could see you in the beautiful clothes you deserve to wear, and ought to wear; there would be few like you."Grace shrugged her shoulders."I like beautiful clothes as well as any one, Marian; but they are not for me, in the meantime at least. I have discovered, I believe, the fitting garb for my station and calling, and I have no intention of altering it." She spoke with a touch of gay badinage in her voice which made me wonder whether she was not a little amused at her own expense."I had a nasty headache when I got up this morning," she said suddenly, and her face became just a trifle graver. "I didn't say anything, but in the night I did not feel quite so well as usual. I daresay it will pass off, though I know I shall never get quite rid of it.""Rid of what?" I asked in surprise. Why, you look as if you could never have an ache or a pain in your life.""Oh, but I have lots, and there is a certain little consulting-room in Wimpole Street which could tell

tale. The strain of the modem woman's life is very great, Marian; but there, I must not keep you any longer. We are no nearer an answer to the question what is to become of you? Oh! I have it. One of my chums, Sarah Wheeler, an American woman, one of the New York Sun correspondents, is just recovering from a little breakdown. She hasn't been out of doors yet, and she will be charmed to see you and have a talk with you. The very thing. Just let me scribble a message to her on this card. She'll give you a lot of hints, and you will find her most charming, with that indescribable charm peculiar to the American woman of the higher type. You can go there any time after lunch; meantime I suppose you can amuse yourself looking at the shops.""Oh, I don't want to have amusements provided for me, Grace," I said, rather indignantly. "I could go to the British Museum, couldn't I?"" Oh, you could, but the chances are that you may get enough of the Museum yet. I shouldn't hasten to its embrace if I were you. There's Miss Wheeler's address, and if you feel like looking in upon her you may be sure of your welcome. Well, goodbye; we shall meet at six o'clock." She nodded gaily, stepped into a passing omnibus, from the window of which she waved her hand

until it swept round the bend of the roadway at St Clement Dane's. I found the morning hours pass but slowly. The woman who has no money to spend does not regard shop windows with the secret joy of the prospective purchaser. She may take a passing pleasure in the tempting display, but it has an element of chagrin and disappointment in it which it would be difficult to put into words. Quite early in the day I made a modest luncheon, and then started to find the residence of Miss Wheeler in Gretton Street Manchester Square. It was a long walk, and it was half-past two by the time I reached the address.Gretton Street was a narrow and quite unpretentious thoroughfare, apparently given up to the letting of apartments. I found the number without difficulty, and was at once shown up into one of the pleasantest rooms I have ever entered. It was a small drawing-room furnished in a thoroughly English style, and covered with old-fashioned rose-patterned chintz, yet there were many other elegant trifles about which were not English at all, but proclaimed the nationality of the woman who inhabited it. She came to me presently through the folding doors which gave admittance, I afterwards found, to a small dining-room.She was a very tiny woman, exquisitely formed, and having an indescribable grace and elegance which I have never seen excelled. She looked about thirty-five. She had an oval face, with a clear colourless complexion and large dark eyes. She wore her hair rippling somewhat quaintly over her ears, and falling in a low knot behind. She had still a morning gown on, for which she apologised. That appeared to me superfluous, since it was an elegant creation of cashmere and lace fit for any company."So you are a friend of Miss Cardrew's," she said, after she had welcomed me and bidden me be seated. "You are fortunate in having such a friend, so strong, so wise, and so good.""Yes, indeed I know I am," I murmured somewhat confusedly, for in this gracious presence I felt myself a plain, awkward country girl without a word to say for myself."She has struggled so nobly, she is one of the few who have succeeded," she went on, trying, I saw, to set me at my ease. "Her example and her experience ought to be of the greatest possible benefit to you; is not that so?" As she put the query her American accent was marked for the first time. I thought it charming. In these days I was full of enthusiasm, quick to receive

impressions, yet it grieved me that she appeared to hold Grace's own views regarding the profession I was so anxious to enter."Do so few get on, then?" I asked. "I thought there were a great many women earning comfortable incomes in London as journalists.""So there are, my dear," Miss Wheeler hastened to assure me, "but I think all have won their position by hard work. I am sure Miss Cardrew must have told you so. It is well not to expect too much.""Yes, but is it not a pity to be too much discouraged?" I ventured to say timidly."Well, perhaps so; if you have ability and push, and above all perseverance, you will get on; without them, no.""Have you been a journalist a long time?" I ventured to ask."Yes, I have been doing work for the Sun for ten years, but I have never been dependent on my own earnings exactly. I have a small income sufficient for my needs. I am a journalist for love of it."I dared not utter the thought which was in my mind, that I could not think it right for a woman who had sufficient to keep her to be occupying a position which would have given bread to another

woman. I wondered that Grace, who I knew held strong views on kindred subjects, had not expressed her disapproval to Miss Wheeler."You will be sure to get on with Miss Cardrew to advise and help you. She is the most wonderful woman I think I have ever known. She has a man's intellect and a woman's heart. Often has she told me in this room, Miss East, that the latter possession handicapped her a good deal, that the woman--who has to fight a man's battle is better to leave behind her her softer attributes.""Well, I don't believe that," I said stoutly. "I think even the attributes of a woman's nature could be made useful. Grace was speaking in this strain to me last night, saying she would have achieved more had she been less sensitive, but I am sure she would then have lost something."Miss Wheeler regarded me attentively, as if--surprised at this frank expression of opinion."No doubt you are right," she answered, " and I daresay there is a good deal of cant in such remarks. After all, we are women, and we cannot help the limitations of our sex. They may handicap us at times, but they help us to be true to our best instincts."I stayed some time longer talking with Miss Wheeler, but in spite of the hearty terms in which

Grace had spoken of her, I did not feel drawn to her. I was a person to whom first impressions were everything. My first impression of Sarah Wheeler was that she was a vain, somewhat frivolous-minded woman, to whom fine clothes were a very essential part of existence, and I did not afterwards have occasion to alter that impression. My habit of mind was critical, and perhaps just a trifle harsh, whereas Grace Cardrew possessed a largesse of that precious gift, the power and the will to bring out the best part of those with whom she came in contact. My conversation with Miss Wheeler, in spite of her sprightliness, had engendered in my mind a singular feeling of depression. I remember as I walked across Manchester Square and sought the busier thoroughfare of Oxford Street, that I had a vague conviction that London life, especially the literary and journalistic life, was a hollow mockery. Miss Wheeler appeared to be on intimate terms with all the men and women whose name the world delights to honour, but she did not speak of them with respect. There seemed to me to be a sneer veiled by her merry words. She spoke of their achievements as mere tricks of a trade, and when I suggested that even in the nineteenth century it might be possible to cherish ideals, she had shown her beautiful teeth 

a mocking smile of scorn. I was young, and for me as yet life held some noble possibilities. With one wave of her gem-ringed hand Miss Wheeler would have waved all these illusions and left me without anything in their place.I puzzled myself, as I walked the whole length of Oxford Street, what Grace could have meant by sending me to such a woman. No doubt she sought experience of all sorts and conditions of journalistic women would be valuable to me at the present stage in my career; all the same, I did not feel grateful to her just then for that particular bit of my experience.It was quite dark when I reached Aldine Mansions, which was the high-sounding title of our particular block of flats. I was very tired, and promised myself an hour's rest on the couch before I need prepare for Grace's return. As I stepped within the swinging outer doors, however, the porter came hastening towards me with a telegram in his hand."I am glad to see you back, miss," he said quickly. "This came a good hour and half ago, but of course I did not know where you was to be found."I grasped it with that sick feeling of appre-

hension which one unaccustomed to the receipt of such missives was bound to feel. I did not connect it in any way with Grace, but somehow thought there must be trouble at home, and my father's half-jesting, half-serious words regarding his own exit from this life recurred painfully to my mind, but when I tore it open I saw that it had no reference to those at home. It was from Godalming, and was signed Pennefather. It simply said that Miss Cardrew had been taken seriously ill there, and wished me to come to her at once.I entered into a very hurried consultation with the porter, who was most kind and concerned. Miss Cardrew had lived two years in the Mansions, and during that time had endeared herself to all. He put me into a hansom and gave me a good many directions, which I fear only fell in confused babel on my ears. I realised, however, that I had to get to Waterloo, and from thence take my train. I shall never forget that journey; every detail of it stands out fresh and distinct in my memory across the bridge of years. It was a fast train, but it was all too slow for my impatience. At last, however, it reached its destination, and I stepped out upon the platform to find a storm of wind and rain in full force. It was quite dark, with that peculiar inky blackness only seen on a late autumn night in the

country. It then occurred to me that I had but the very slenderest address. I had nothing but the name of Pennefather to guide me to the place where my friend was ill and in need of me. As I gave up my ticket I put the question to the collector."Yes, miss," he answered civilly. "There's a carriage from the Wold in the yard now, so they're expecting some one."This did not help me much, because I did not for a moment expect that the carriage had been sent on the chance of meeting me. Anxiety made me bold, however, and when I saw the neat brougham standing under the station lights, I walked up and, addressing the coachman, asked if I might be allowed a seat on the box."Are you Miss East?" he asked civilly."Yes," I answered breathlessly."Then will you please to step inside. My lady sent me to meet you."Filled with thankfulness to the unknown lady who had shown me so much consideration, I stepped into the warm, comfortable carriage, and immediately we were bowling along the muddy roads so smoothly that I scarcely felt the motion of the wheels. It seemed but a short space before we turned in at an immense and imposing gateway,

then up a long avenue, between two rows of stately trees to the house.I was astonished at myself that night; ordinarily the shyest and most retiring of mortals, I was, conscious of nothing but my consuming anxiety to hear what had happened to Grace, and to be with her. The moment I stepped within the door, finding myself in a magnificent, warmly lighted hall, the mistress of the house came swiftly through one of the many doors to meet me. She was an elderly woman, still carrying in face and figure the traces of the beauty which had distinguished her in her youth."I am so thankful you have come," she said. "I suppose you were not in when the telegram arrived. This is the second time I have sent to the station.""I came the moment I got it," I answered, "but oh! tell me what is the matter with Miss Cardrew. She was so well when she left London this morning.""It is a stroke of some kind," said Lady Pennefather kindly, and I saw that she was moved by my distress. "I am afraid it is a very serious matter for poor Miss Cardrew. Will you come up at once? I hope that you will not be too late."I shall never forget the anguish of my heart as I followed Lady Pennefather upstairs. The shock of

words was so terrible as to numb all my sensibilities. I felt like a creature made of stone. Half-way up the richly carpeted staircase, upon which our footsteps gave forth no sound, Lady Pennefather paused a moment and laid her hand upon my arm."I am very sorry for you, my dear, but it will relieve you to know that Miss Cardrew suffers no pain, and that when the end comes it will be painless also. Everything has been done for her that could be done. I offered to send to London for a physician or surgeon, but our own doctor said it was useless."I had no power of speech with which to answer her. It was of Grace she was speaking--Grace, from whom I had parted only a few hours before, envying her her tireless energy, her joy in and capacity for work. The next moment I saw her; door was softly opened, and I stole across the spacious chamber to the bed where Grace lay. She was quite pale, and her eyes were closed, her long lashes lying peacefully on her cheek as if she were asleep. My heart felt almost bursting, but for her sake I had to put a strong curb on my feelings, so I simply leaned over her and spoke her name very gently. She stirred a little, and finally opened her eyes. At first there was a vagueness in her gaze which struck me chilly to the heart, but

presently her dulled faculties seemed to awake to some comprehension, and she smiled."So you have come, Molly," she said, using the name by which she had called me in the old school-days. "We did not think when we parted this morning that one of us would get her marching orders before night."She did not speak these words clearly and consecutively as they are written, but at intervals, and with great difficulty. Her speech was slightly affected, and it was only ears sharpened by love that could grasp her meaning. I pressed her hand, and bending over her, kissed her."You will stay, Molly; it will not be long," she said.I nodded, and immediately began to unbutton my jacket; the odd thing was that neither of us seemed to take into consideration for a moment the fact that we were strangers and intruders in a great house upon which we had no claim. I wish to set down here my indebtedness to Lady Pennefather, my deep and undying gratitude for the tender consideration she showed to us at that time. She is still alive, and if it should be that these words meet her eye, she will know that her Christian charity has never been forgotten by one who witnessed it, and shared it.I watched with my poor friend the whole night long. Part of the night Lady Pennefather's maid, a kindly middle-aged woman, sat with me, but there was so little we could do that towards morning I begged her to go and lie down, promising to call her if any change necessitated it.It must have been very near the dawn, I think, when sitting, alert and untiring, on my chair beside the bed, I saw a change upon the face of my poor friend. She opened her eyes; they were quite clear, and had a wonderful brightness in them."My mother has been here, Molly," she said, quite quietly and with a certain joyous ring in her voice such as I cannot describe; it was like the wondering joy of a child who does not understand, but who only trusts and loves. "She has never been far away, I have often felt that. She has been with me here all night long. How near we are to the Unseen after all! Soon I shall be there, and all doubts will be set at rest.""You are not afraid, Grace," I said, with a kind of desperate earnestness, for I saw that she was dying, and I longed with a great longing to have some assurance from her which would be a comfort to my memory after. She shook her head, and slightly raising herself on her elbow, she turned upon me a full and searching glance."It is a godless life, Molly, the life upon which you are entering," she said, the words passing her lips at intervals, in slow, difficult accents. "Hold fast to the faith; it is the only anchor, the only safeguard, the very rock of salvation." And these were her last words. Before I could summon them she had passed painlessly beyond the portals of the Unseen.III
THE NEW FRIENDDEATH, when it comes, no matter how it may have been anticipated or longed for, must of necessity give something of a shock, but when it swoops down and removes from our side one apparently in the full tide of life and vigour, it leaves us stunned and helpless. In my case it seemed to rob me for the time being of the power to think or act. I missed Grace at every turn, and felt like a derelict drifting helplessly on an unknown sea. I only realised now that all my longings and aspirations had centred in Grace Cardrew, that for me life in London had meant continuance at her side. What to do now I knew not; without her guiding hand and directing voice I felt myself lost indeed.Her affairs, I found, were in the hands of a respectable lawyer. I remember yet the shock it

was to me to know that Grace had made her will, and disposed of all her effects at least a year before her illness had given her timely warning. She had not much to leave, but with characteristic consideration she had willed everything to her only living relative, a cousin married to a struggling vicar in the North Riding of Yorkshire. The graciousness of that bequest was to be found in the fact that this woman and her husband, the only kin my poor friend had on the earth, had never approved of or countenanced her in any way. To me she bequeathed a small old-fashioned writing-desk which had been her father's, and when I opened it I found therein the diary she had faithfully kept throughout the lonely and struggling years of her London life. When I came to turn over its pages, I found it at once the saddest and the bravest record of a woman's heartache and endurance. Perhaps one day I may give it to the world, since she did not forbid this, although its primary object, as stated in the letter which lay upon its neatly numbered sheets, was to help and encourage me. Hearing of the bequest which had so unexpectedly fallen to her, the vicar's wife came down from Yorkshire and possessed herself of the whole contents of the flat. To me she showed but scant consideration, and

after one interview with her I had no desire again to behold her face.I had obtained from Grace several guest tickets for the weekly house tea at the Writer's Club, and thither I bent my steps on the first Friday I found myself alone, tired of my loneliness and having an unspeakable longing for the companionship of my kind. I had not the remotest idea what kind of a place the Club would be, or what a house tea was like. I had heard Grace, however, speak warmly of it as one of the most useful institutions for the journalistic woman, especially for those in the ranks. She had told me that she made a point of attending every Friday, and she had assured me that there I should meet many friends, and be able to compare notes with those in a like position to myself. Had I not felt desperately in need of some companionship, I do not think I could ever have screwed up my courage to enter the place. Remember, I was a country girl, a novice who regarded all things from the novice's point of view. I walked up and down the narrow pavement of Fleet Street for quite ten minutes before I could bring myself to mount the long flights of stairs. Before I had reached the rooms the babel of many voices fell upon my somewhat shrinking ears. When I reached the topmost landing I saw two women

talking together; their faces were serious and their voices lowered. As they stepped aside to let me pass, I gathered from a chance word that they were talking of Grace. It was the same within the rooms, a hush seemed to lie upon the spirits of all. I heard her name on every side. The shock of her sudden death had evidently made a profound impression upon all who knew her, and it was a melancholy pleasure to me, as I slipped into a corner, almost dreading lest any one should question my right to be there, to hear the terms in which she was spoken of.There must have been a hundred women of different ages gathered in those small rooms. Tea was being served at a table at the farther end, and presently a pleasant-looking girl brought me a cup."Won't you come up to the other end of the room?" she asked, with a bright, sympathetic smile. "Miss Wheeler is the hostess to-day, and she is so sweet to everybody.""Oh, I know Miss Wheeler," I said, rising, " and I shall be very glad to come, if it would not trouble her.""Oh, she never thinks anything of trouble, but the fact is we are all rather depressed to-day on account of Miss Cardrew's death. I daresay

you have heard of it She was one of our first journalists, I mean she was at the head of her profession, and every one loved her. She was the life and soul of this Club. I don't really know how we're to get on without her. Of course you didn't know her.""Oh yes, I did," I cried, and it seemed to me that all my pent-up feeling was expressed in my tones. "She was my dearest friend, my only friend, in fact, in London." My companion turned and looked at me rather curiously, I thought, as if doubting my words, but there was no time for further speech, for we came presently to the table where Miss Wheeler, in a Paris gown with just a touch of mourning about it, was dispensing her hospitality and talking incessantly all the while. I had nothing to complain of in her greeting to me. She shook hands with me quite impressively, and then said--"Don't go away: I want to hear everything about our poor friend. Just sit down there, until I dispose of some of my other guests."I obeyed her, and from my vantage-ground behind the table I sipped my tea and took an interested survey of my surroundings. As was to be expected, I was intensely interested to find myself in the company of so many members of

the profession it was my ambition to enter. For the time being hope concerning my own future was at a very low ebb. I had neither ambition nor plan. Of course this was only the reaction after the terrible week I had just gone through, and I knew that sooner or later I should be obliged to bestir myself. Miss Wheeler was very much in request. I could not help overhearing part of the conversation between her and her stylish guests. It seemed to be all of functions and gowns, mingled with a good deal of chaff, but I never caught a single serious word regarding the real business of life. Of course I was at that particular moment too much inclined to morbid seriousness, and in my own bitter disappointment I forgot that I saw the women writers in their leisure hours, when they felt it their duty, no doubt, to be as frivolous as possible.I sat there alone at the end of the table for quite half an hour, then suddenly some one touched me gently on the shoulder. I turned round quickly, and saw standing at my side a tall, graceful girl, with a beautiful clear-cut face and very sad eyes, looking down on me."Excuse me," she said, "but I overheard you say that Miss Cardrew was your dearest friend. Perhaps she helped you, as she helped me and

many others. I shall never forget her as long as I live. Don't you think that some of us ought to get up a memorial of her?""Won't you sit down?" I said, making room for her on the wide chair upon which I sat. "I am a stranger here, a stranger in London too," I said quickly. "My name is East--Marian East.""What a pretty name! Mine is so ugly. I am called Anne Renshaw. What are you doing at present?""I am not doing anything; I only wish I was," I answered bluntly. "I have just come up from the country to try my fortune, but this terrible misfortune has happened to me at the very outset, and I don't know what I am going to do next.""Did you know Miss Cardrew well?" asked my new friend, with interest."Oh yes, I was at school with her. I have been her guest at Aldine Mansions since I came to London, and I was with her when she died.""Were you indeed?" Anne Renshaw's eyes dwelt upon me; I thought, with an access of respect."I ought not to ask anything about it, but oh! I cannot help it," she cried impulsively. "I loved her so much I cannot believe that she is dead, and

I feel as if it would be impossible to go on without her."At that moment Miss Wheeler interrupted us, and I had to go through the whole story of my journey into Surrey. I told her the facts of the case, but I had no temptation to linger upon what passed after I got there, and my impression of Miss Wheeler was not deepened, in a favourable direction at least. What was my horror next day to read in one of the afternoon papers a full and circumstantial account of my poor friend's seizure and death, as circumstantially as if I had written it myself. When I saw the signature, Sarah Wheeler, my indignation knew no bounds. What had been sacred to me was only so much "copy" to the woman who had professed such an ardent friendship for poor Grace. Of course, when more experience came to me, I felt less bitter regarding what thus appeared to me an unpardonable breach of good manners and good taste, but I do not think I ever quite forgave the gay American for it.When Miss Wheeler had obtained from me the whole of the information she required, she quietly turned her back upon me again. I fully intended asking her for some advice regarding my future, but the lack of sympathy in her manner warned

me that my request would be likely to meet with disappointment, so I was preparing somewhat sadly to leave the chattering throng, when Miss Renshaw came to my side."Are you going now?" she asked. "Perhaps we could walk together. Where are you living?""I have a little room in Aldine Mansions still, but I am looking for lodgings; of course I cannot afford to live there any longer. So much seems to have happened in a week, I don't know where to turn.""I know," said Miss Renshaw, with a little nod which somehow conveyed to me a sense of homely sympathy, which was unspeakably comforting to me in my forlorn state."I should like to live in a flat too, but I don't know whether I shall ever accomplish it. Have you anything to do this evening?""Nothing," I answered blankly. "I never have anything to do. I am one of the unemployed at present.""Well, supposing you come home with me for an hour. I have very nice lodgings in a quiet street off the Kensington Road; of course it is a very plebeian neighbourhood, but it is necessary to cut one's coat according to the cloth.""I shall be very glad indeed," I said gratefully."It is very kind of you to take so much interest in a person you know nothing about.""She is the bond between us," said Miss Renshaw softly. "It's a purely selfish motive, I assure you, which actuates me just at present. I want to talk about her. No one seems quite to understand what she was.""There was plenty of talk about her at the Club," I said, somewhat gloomily. I seemed to hear her name on every side.""Oh, yes, the morbid talk of those interested in the tragic end of her life-story. She was a great favourite, but it is only the few and the struggling who really knew what she was."I could not speak, my heart was too full, and we walked in silence towards the busy Trafalgar Square, and turned into Whitehall, scarcely speaking a word."Have you any friends in London?" she asked me at length.I shook my head."No. Miss Cardrew was my only one. Do you come from the country also?""Yes, my home is at Bournemouth; my mother lives there. She is a widow and keeps a boarding-house, but it does not pay. It is a terrible life for her. My father was a clergyman, and he could

not leave his family provided for. I have two sisters and no brother, so now you know all about me.""And do you make enough to support yourself?""Oh, yes," she answered brightly. "I have been very fortunate. Miss Cardrew helped me a lot. I began as a typewriting secretary, and then I took up journalism in earnest. I like it very much. I should not care to do anything else.""How pleasant it is to hear you say that!" I said, feeling quite a grateful glow towards her. "Every one is so discouraging."Miss Renshaw laughed. She was very pretty when her lips were parted, showing the even white pearls of her teeth."It does not do to paint the profession in glowing colours to every novice," she said, with a touch of gay banter. "The ranks are too full as it is. Now tell me something about yourself, that is, if you care to give me your confidence; of course I don't want to force it, but I think we might be friends. It is a great thing to have a friend in London. I have never had a real one--in my own profession, I mean; some of them are so impossible."I did not at once respond to this speech, because

my heart was full. Once or twice Anne Renshaw looked at me, but I think she understood, and so we came in the same silence to the place which in London represented home to her. It was a small and unpretentious house in a small and unpretentious street, shabby enough inside, and yet the sitting-room had a homely look with its cheerful fire and drawn curtains. I thought of my own few feet of space in Aldine Mansions, its bare cleanliness and its pitiless gas fire, and my heart warmed anew to the room and its occupant."I am pretty comfortable here, you see," observed Miss Renshaw. "For this and my bedroom upstairs I pay twelve shillings a week. The people are very decent; they are elderly. The husband is a clerk in the city, and there are no children, so it is very quiet and comfortable.""It looks so," I said warmly. "It is the first home-like place I have seen in London.""I have peace to work at least," said Miss Renshaw, with a sigh, "but it is so wretchedly lonely when one doesn't want to work. Do you think you would care to share with me? Of course I know it is unusual to improve so quickly such a slight acquaintance, but somehow one has intuitions about such things; don't you think so?""Indeed I do," I answered, without a moment's hesitation. "I should be only too thankful to find a refuge like this, but the thing that troubles me is whether I can afford it; certainly I could not unless I speedily get some steady work.""Have you nothing, then, except what you may earn?" Miss Renshaw asked. She had seated herself at the table and pushed back her hat from her face. I saw then how really beautiful she was, with her bright hair waving naturally above a broad white brow, which indicated the higher order of intelligence. In a few words I put her in possession of all the facts of my existence. She listened gravely, and when I had done she spoke out without hesitation."You have ten pounds, you say. That would keep you here for two months at least, and allow you a few shillings for outside expenses, I know exactly what I am talking about. By the end of that time, if you are going to get on, there will be some signs of it. Will you risk it?""If you care to have me," I answered, "I shall only be too thankful.""Have you any introductions--to editors, I mean?""None," I answered, shaking my head. "I have had several sketches and one or two poems

accepted by the Westminster Review, that's all."Miss Renshaw looked interested and, I thought, a trifle surprised."Have you really? Then the editor must be familiar with your name. You must call on him without delay. His name is Stokes, Bennet Stokes. I know him a little; he is very pleasant, and a gentleman. Yes, without doubt you must look up Mr. Stokes.""I am afraid I haven't much pluck," I said ruefully. "I suffered agonies the other morning when I went to the Western News Office with Miss Cardrew, although she did all the talking.""Oh, you'll get over that," said Miss Renshaw, with a smile. "It's got to be done. 'Push, push, push,' that's the gospel we've got to cling to here, I can tell you.""What do you think Mr. Stokes would be likely to say to me?" I asked, with a kind of fearful interest."Oh, well, that depends chiefly perhaps on the humour he might happen to be in at the moment, but if he has liked your things to print them on their merits in the Westminster, I think probably he will treat you with respect, and it is just possible that he may be able to put something

permanent in your way. I should go to-morrow, if I were you. Have you any samples of work you can let him see?""Only what he has printed already," I answered."Ah, but that is not what I mean. When you are looking for steady work, you must be able to show samples, some bright chatty paragraphs, for instance, or an interesting interview, or whatever else you think you could do.""I am certain I could never interview anybody," I said. "I should die at my own impertinence in asking so many questions.""Not a bit of you; you'd soon get over that," my new friend assured me, "but I must confess that interviewing is the part of my work I most actively dislike; but there, one has to take the bitter with the sweet.""I suppose you do all sorts of journalistic work?" I said, looking up with interest as I asked the question."Oh, yes, anything that comes in my way. I am not proud, although I am poor," she added, with a laugh. "I work a lot for the Newspaper Syndicate: that brings me in always a pound a week. A pound a week is a good stand-by; it means one's living, and unless that is assured in London, it's a poor business.""What do you do for the Syndicate?" I asked then."Oh, I do anything they want--fashion articles, columns of domestic stuff, things about cookery. I have never cooked a dinner in my life, but I am an authority on the best way of using up cold meat.""Where do you learn it all?" I asked, much amused."Oh, from cookery books, aided by my imagination. There's a pile of them over there, which you can study in your leisure moments. Then I supply a London letter for a lot of weekly newspapers in the country. It is surprising what one can do. Often I am surprised at the variety of my own accomplishments.""And when you came, were you as inexperienced as I?" I ventured to ask."Oh, quite, and I think, as far as I can remember, looking back, I was inflated with a sense of my own importance, which, as far as one can judge on such short acquaintance, you do not appear to be. There is nothing more objectionable, of course, than self-conceit; still, my experience has been that people generally accept your own estimate of yourself, so do not begin by being too humble with Mr. Stokes to-morrow, for instance.""I don't think I shall ever have the courage to venture," I said ruefully."Oh, you must. You have come to London to get your own living, and you must expect to seek it. I quite understand how you must feel being left without Miss Cardrew. The world will never seem the same to me again.""You knew her well, then?" I asked, remembering that I had not heard in what particular way Grace had befriended Anne Renshaw."Oh yes. Once I was in dreadful straits, and it was soon after I had come to London, before I had sufficient knowledge of it to be wary of its pitfalls; but for her I do not know where I should have been to-day. Some day I will tell you the whole story, but it will not bear talking of just yet. But there, we've been doleful long enough. It is settled that you will come here? Don't you want any further credentials from me? I may not be what I seem.""I'll risk it," I said heartily, "if you are willing to take me on trust in the same way.""You know I am, since I have taken the initiative," she answered brightly. "Well, then, suppose we call up Mrs. Upton and interview her on the subject of accommodation and terms."I nodded, Miss Renshaw rang the bell, and

presently a thin, pale, pleasant-looking woman entered the room. Our conversation with her did not take many minutes. Miss Renshaw quickly explained what was required, and Mrs. Upton expressed herself as willing to take me on Miss Renshaw's recommendation. I climbed two flights of stairs and saw my little room, which was very near the sky and very simply furnished, but it was clean and wholesome, and the feeling that I had found such a haven and such a friend changed the whole aspect of life for me to a brighter tone. When we parted that night, Anne Renshaw walking with me to the door of Aldine Mansions, I made two promises, one to call upon Mr. Stokes next day without fail, and to turn up in the evening with all my goods and chattels at No. 18, Beaumont Place, Kennington Road.IV
AMONG THE UNEMPLOYEDA FEW weeks after I moved to Beaumont Place I was fortunate enough
to have articles accepted by another weekly paper, the St. Dunstan's Gazette. The St. Dunstan's was one of the numerous weekly papers struggling against the competition of many rivals. I say "struggling" advisedly, because I had not been long in London before I discovered that the Gazette was a losing concern. It aimed at being popular rather than critical, and it gained a reputation for being willing to give encouragement to young writers. I came to know of its existence through Grace having sent me a copy from time to time, encouraging me to try my luck in its pages. I had done so, and my success had surprised no one more than myself. Everything I had sent, sketches of life as I had seen it among the poorer ranks of my father's patients,

had seemed to me uninteresting enough, their only quality faithfulness of detail. At that particular time such short contributions, which for lack of a better name had been christened Idylls, were much in request, and mine appeared to be welcome, that was all. The fact that my small talent had been thus recognised had not, however, uplifted me unduly, and I can truly say that I presented myself at the office of the St. Dunstan's Gazette in an appropriately humble frame of mind, my demeanour totally unmarked by that confident assumption which is said to be the outstanding characteristic of the aspirant to literary fame. It was not literary fame I sought, however, but only a niche to fill in that particular corner of the great world's mart which interested me more than any other; the remuneration I required, only a living wage. It was not much to ask from destiny, and yet I feared from what I had heard that I had craved the impossible.I walked from Aldine Mansions to the office of the Gazette in Burleigh Street, Strand, and remembering Anne Renshaw's advice, I did not allow myself a moment's hesitation before entering. There was nothing inviting or even prosperous-looking about the particularly dingy little flat in which the work of the Gazette was carried on.When I pushed open the glass door I found myself confronted by a small counter, behind which a youth in spectacles was addressing some wrappers."Can I see the editor?" I asked quietly.The youth looked up and eyed me steadily, as if seeking to satisfy himself regarding my claim to attention."Appointment?" he said briefly."No," I answered, "but I think he will see me if you take my name."The spectacled youth shook his head. "He never does except by appointment, unless it's somebody very important, but I'll take your name," he added good-naturedly. "It all depends on how he feels." With this confidential information the youth disappeared round a wooden partition, bearing my unpretentious card with him. He was not long gone, and when he returned he lifted up a part of the counter and indicated that I might pass in."Step this way, miss, if you please," he said, and I was shown right through the outer office and then into an inner room in which there was a solitary occupant, a man sitting at a large business-like desk standing between two windows. At the opening of the door he wheeled round his

chair, and then I saw to my surprise that the editor, whom I had pictured as elderly and bald, was quite a young man. Why I should have thought he must be bald I cannot imagine, and I felt just a trifle confused in the presence of a very smart young man with a dark moustache and abundance of dark hair."So you are Miss East," he said pleasantly. "I am very glad to see you. Sit down. When did you come to town?""I have been here only a week," I answered, as I took the chair he offered, feeling more at my ease."I suppose you are on.a visit. I gathered from those sketches you sent to me, clever little things they were too, that you are a daughter of a medical man; is not that so?""Yes, it is," I answered, "but I have not come on a visit; I have come to stay, to get my own living, in fact; and you have been so kind about those sketches, I thought I might venture to come and ask your advice."This was the little speech I had carefully prepared during my walk, and I regarded the good-looking face of the editor somewhat timidly, not at all sure what effect it would be likely to have on him. He preserved a perfectly impassive

expression while he regarded me steadily. It seemed to me that in that glance he sought to read and to sum up all my qualifications for the career I aimed at."You write very well," he said presently. "Some day, if you persevere, you will write a very good novel. Why not go home and try it now?"This was an entirely new suggestion, and delivered as it was in such a matter-of-fact voice, I felt rather staggered by it."Oh, I don't think I could do that," I answered, almost in dismay. "What I want is to get some steady work on a magazine or a newspaper, and I thought you might be able to give me a little advice, perhaps.""Well, I am advising you, am I not?" he answered, and his eyes twinkled just a little. "The unfortunate thing about most advice, Miss East, is that it so seldom coincides with the inclination. Who advised you to come to London, may I ask?""No one actually advised me," I answered, "but Miss Cardrew thought there would be no harm in my making the experiment. She encouraged rather than discouraged me.""Did she? She must have thought well of your powers, then. Miss Cardrew was a very

discriminating woman; by her death the profession has sustained an irreparable loss." His face became grave to seriousness, and in his voice there was a note of personal regret. It was the same everywhere. I found Grace Cardrew had earned the respect of every man and woman with whom she had come in contact."I don't know that I can put anything in your way," he said presently, coming to the point in that quick, decisive manner characteristic of him. "There is no opening here except for such work as I have had already from your pen. I will undertake to print as many of those sketches as you like to send, provided they are as good as what I have had already. I am sorry the remuneration must be small. I tell you quite frankly, the St. Dunstan's Gazette has not yet turned the prosperous corner, and until it does we must restrain our more generous impulses. I can give you two notes of introduction if you like, they might be useful to you: one to my friend Dale, who is one of the managers in the great Ackworth concern. They need a great many helpers, but they pay very badly. However, you cannot afford to quarrel with terms at present, but must take what you can get. Then there is Stanton, of the World's Syndicate; he might do something for

you, but I warn you he is not a pleasant man to deal with; still, he can put work in your way if he likes."I cannot describe the feeling of quick gratitude which rose in my heart at the frank, brotherly manner in which this man, almost a complete stranger to me, thus sought to help me. I felt at home, and almost as if I had known him for years. My shyness disappeared, and I was able to talk with a frankness which astonished no one more than myself. We parted in about half an hour on the best of terms."Goodbye, Miss East; come and see me when you like, and if I can do anything else for you I shall be very glad. Don't get discouraged, and if the worst comes to the worst, remember you can always go back to Frensham and write that novel."I thanked him warmly, and left with a lighter heart than I had carried for several days. When I reached the street again, I paused and studied the two addresses he had given. The great establishment of the Ackworths, which was creating new epochs almost daily in the journalistic world, was just within a few minutes' walk, and I decided to interview Mr. Dale first. I was received at the office, however, with the

information that he was out of town, and the date I of his return uncertain. I could leave no message, of course, except that I would call again, and then I wended my way to the offices of the World's Syndicate in Bolt Court, Fleet Street.Until now I had the vaguest idea what a syndicate was. Miss Renshaw, however, had been at some pains to explain it to me. I was therefore better prepared for my interview with Mr. Stanton than I should have been before I met her. The offices of the World's Syndicate presented a striking contrast to the dingy premises of the St. Dunstans Gazette. The rooms were large and airy, exceedingly well furnished too, and there appeared to be any number of smart-looking young men engaged at the various desks. When I asked for Mr. Stanton across the desk, the young man who attended to me bade me be seated while he inquired whether his chief was disengaged. I gave him the card of introduction I had received from the editor of the Gazette, and waited in considerable trepidation for a reply, remembering that I had been told Mr. Stanton was not a pleasant man to deal with.It was my nature to shrink from all unpleasant things, and yet here I was of my own accord seeking an interview with a man who had made a

reputation for bad manners. I quite expected to be turned away, but to my surprise the young man presently returned and requested me to follow him, which I did, and was shown into a very comfortable and handsomely furnished room, which indeed looked more like a lady's boudoir than the sanctum of a man of business. A soft Turkey carpet covered the floor, there were rich hangings at the long windows, and I observed that the quaintly designed fireplace had a perfect gallery of ladies' photographs on the mantelshelf. The photographs were mostly those of ladies in evening dress, and many of them had signatures scribbled in fantastic handwriting across them, but I was not near enough to be able to read them. All this I saw before Mr. Stanton deigned to recognise me. He appeared to be dictating to a young lady who sat at the opposite side of his desk, and he kept on in a steady, even voice at his work without so much as glancing in my direction. I was therefore able to take a leisurely survey of him, and even to form my own opinion before he had spoken to me at all. He was a middle-aged man, very fair and florid, inclined to stoutness also, although when he rose up I saw that he carried his figure well."That will do, thank you, Miss Brooks," he said

at length, and the girl rose, gathered up her manuscript, and departed; then he directed his attention to me."Good morning, Miss East, I think?" he said glancing inquiringly at the card he had picked up from the table. "The editor of the St. Dunstan's Gazette recommends you. Sit down and tell me what you can do."This was rather a bewildering request. There was something disconcerting in the man's eye; he did not put me at my ease, but left me confused, almost trembling."I am afraid I cannot do very much," I managed to say at length. "Some of my things have appeared in the Gazette; perhaps you might wish to see them.""What are they?" he asked brusquely. "Brought them with you?""No," I answered, "but I have them at home; if you care to see them I could easily get them.""I see you are a novice," he said, with a slight smile, "but we are always on the look-out for fresh stuff, provided it's good. Did your editor tell you what sort of thing we require?""No, sir," I answered. "He simply said that perhaps you might be able to put something in my way.""Well, perhaps I may, but you know, I suppose, that the market is over-stocked already, consequently the prices have fallen. Let me see--" He took up a very fat note-book from his desk, and ran his eye over the contents."What sort of fiction can you write, domestic or bloodthirsty? If you can let me have a good story of domestic life, or the other if you prefer it, of thirty or forty thousand words within the next fortnight, I'll pay you at the rate of five shillings a thousand words. I don't usually pay so much, but Stokes says your stuff is good, and I call him a judge. Can you let me have the manuscript, let me see--by the thirtieth?""I am afraid not," I said falteringly. "I have never tried to write a long story in my life, and to finish it in a fortnight, I am afraid, would be beyond me.""You might do worse than try, Miss East," said Stanton significantly. "I can easily get it done; I know dozens of 'em who would sit up half the night to be in time; but if you won't, you won't, and there's an end on't."I saw that I had made a mistake, and probably destroyed my chance with Mr. Stanton."If you think I can do it, I shall be quite willing to try," I said, "but that is not exactly

the kind of work I wanted. I wish to be a journalist.""Well, the first qualification  of a good journalist, Miss East, is to be able to do what she is told. She never says she can't do a thing; she tries her best. Whoever advised you to enter the profession should have told you at the same time that it is not possible to pick and choose; what you've got to remember, young lady, is that what you can't do another will. I'll leave my offer open; if you like to try you can; if not, I am afraid I can't do anything more for you. Do you know shorthand?""Yes, I know it very well. I have studied it for years, and practised a good bit too.""Ah, well, you'll find that useful. Well, I haven't any more time to talk to you to-day. If you like to come and see me in a fortnight or three weeks with that manuscript, good and well. If it's up to the mark, I might be able to put something better in your way, but I like people to work for me whom I can depend on in an emergency, you understand."I thought I did, and said so, but I did not feel exhilarated by the prospect A few minutes later I found myself on the outside of Mr. Stanton's door, having undertaken to complete the story

in the next three weeks. In some vague and undefined manner, I felt a loss of self-respect. In the eyes of Mr. Stanton I was not a person at all, but a machine, whose value entirely depended on the capacity to turn out so much copy in a given time. So ended my morning's experiences in search of work.The day was yet young. Anne Renshaw had arranged to meet me at a certain tea-shop at Westminster at four o'clock, to hear the record of my morning's work. I was impatient for the hour to arrive in order to hear her opinion. I could not tell whether I had acquitted myself creditably or the reverse. My interview with Mr. Stanton had left me limp and oddly confused. As I walked along the Embankment about three o'clock in the afternoon, I felt very old. It seemed years since I had left my father's house, and yet I had not the slightest desire to go back. Already the fascination of London had laid hold on me.Miss Renshaw was punctual, for which I was extremely grateful to her. I had lunched on a cup of coffee and a sandwich, and was quite ready for a substantial tea."Well, there you are, looking as blue and forlorn as possible. I have been working like a galley slave all the morning, and I have had

nothing to eat since breakfast. Let's go in and have a couple of poached eggs."At sight of her bright face all my troubles seemed to melt away, and when she piloted her way across the long saloon, with its rows of little white tables, to a quiet corner by the fireplace, and motioned me to sit down there, I again felt the blessedness of human companionship. To be alone in a great city, there is no desolation like it, it is more than a woman can endure, and this thought has made me very tender always to the waifs and strays who have come to grief on the sea of London life. It is easy for the daughters of ease to sit at home in judgment. It is ignorance as well as lack of human sympathy which makes their judgment so pitilessly harsh."Well, I must say you don't look very bright," said Miss Renshaw, as she pulled off her well-worn gloves and laid them on the marble table, after she had given the order for our meal. "Perhaps you hadn't much luck, but don't be discouraged. Where did you go first?""To the St. Dunstan's. The editor was very kind. He could not put anything permanent in my way, but he expressed himself willing to look at anything I might send him. He gave me two introductions--one to a Mr. Dale at Ackworth's,

and the other to Mr. Stanton at the World's Syndicate." I was surprised to see the colour rise in Anne Renshaw's cheek, and I thought her eyes flashed."Well?" she said, in a sharp, metallic voice. "I suppose you went there?""Yes, I called at Ackworth's first, but Mr. Dale was out of town. Then I saw Mr. Stanton.""You did." She kept her eyes keenly on my face. I saw that she was deeply interested, also that she was holding herself in check until I had finished my recital."I suppose he was kind," I said vaguely; "at least, I am certain he was not unkind, and he gave me a commission, but he had the most curious paralysing effect on me. I cannot explain it.""I can," said Miss Renshaw, with a nod. "I was his secretary once for three months; it nearly killed me. But go on; what did he ask you to do?""To write a story for him, a forty thousand words story in three weeks;" and then I burst out laughing; it was hysterical laughter, which I could not control without a most violent effort."I suppose you may call yourself lucky. How very odd that you should have been sent there. He is not a good man. He has many girls in his

employment, and sometimes he forgets that he is a gentleman, that is all. So you undertook the story, eh?" The colour had faded out of her face, leaving it a little white and stern. I felt in some vague troubled way that I had unwittingly touched upon the one bit of tragedy in Anne Renshaw's life."He has a great deal in his power," she said presently. "He is the absolute head of the Syndicate, and could put any amount of work in your way, but he grinds the faces of those he employs to the very dust. Once when I was in his employment I forgot myself and gave him a piece of my mind. Oh, it was unpardonable, of course I know that, but I suffered for it. He never forgave me for that and for some other things, and he has done his utmost to damage my position, but he hasn't succeeded. I suppose you did not mention my name. If you had he would have snubbed you unmercifully. Did he say anything about the price?""Yes, he said the payment would be five shillings a thousand words.""That's ten pounds for a story of the length he wishes. Isn't it awful, and doesn't it show you what the life is? Don't you want to go back even yet?"I shook my head."No," I answered steadily. "I will never go back. If I can get that story finished in time to satisfy Mr. Stanton, don't you see I can go on until something else turns up.""I admire your pluck, and understand it too. I have felt myself that way, but at the same time it is my duty to tell you if you go on at this sort of work your capacity for anything better will be--destroyed. Heavens! don't I know it too well. I used to have a very pretty fancy, but it has been destroyed, and now I am a hack and nothing else."That very night I started to the work which Mr. Stanton had put in my way. It was less difficult than I had imagined. I was gifted with a fertile imagination, and I had studied so closely all the methods of the best masters of fiction that the construction of the story gave me no trouble. It was finished in time to permit Anne Renshaw to read it before I sent it to its destination. "It is readable, but not distinguished," was her verdict, which I accepted as final. "You will make your living at it easily, but nothing more." This verdict did not in the least damp my hope or crush my spirits. At that particular moment the problem of mere existence was the only one I had

to solve. Determined  to justify my wilful departure from home, I could not afford to pick and choose. My manuscript was duly considered, and approved by Mr. Stanton, and I became one of the permanent staff of contributors to the great World's Syndicate.V
ON THE PERMANENT STAFFI HAD to pay a good many visits to the office of the World's Syndicate in Bolt Court. After he had accepted my first novel, Mr. Stanton appeared to be always wanting me for something or other. He put a good many things in my way for which I was extremely grateful to him. I must say that in all my dealings with him I could never take any exception to his treatment of me. He could not be said to be conspicuously courteous, but I believed that to be his manner. He always spoke in an imperative and commanding voice, even when asking the smallest service, and he never minced matters or hesitated to give an opinion, whether it was likely to hurt one's feelings or not.One day when I arrived at the office to keep an appointment with Mr. Stanton concerning some work I had done for a country newspaper, I was

surprised to meet Miss Brooks, who acted as private secretary, hurrying out of the room apparently in tears, but when I entered Mr. Stanton's presence I did not observe anything in his demeanour to indicate that a scene had taken place."Pray sit down, Miss East," he said to me without turning his head, "and I will attend to you in a moment. I have a note to write which cannot wait."I sat down and waited without impatience. My time was not yet of such supreme value that I grudged the loss of a few minutes."I hope you've brought what I want," he said, in his usual brusque manner, when he turned round to me at last."I've brought it," I said, "but I don't know whether it is what you want or not; I am afraid I cannot improve it" He took the manuscript from my hand and glanced over it.As far as I can judge I think it will be all right. I'm very much obliged to you for doing this for me so quickly. It is a great matter to be able to meet an emergency. Now, some women can't do it. You have seen the young lady who works for me here, I suppose?""Yes, I met her just now as I came in.""Ah! We've just had a small scene here, and I

have dispensed with her services. I can't rely on her, and she hasn't an idea in her head. Will you take the place, Miss East? I believe we'd get on well enough."I hesitated several moments, almost overcome by surprise. Two months ago how I should have jumped at the prospect; but now I did not feel disposed to part with my liberty, and I knew how much men of Stanton's type could take out of those in their employment."I would require time to think about it, Mr. Stanton," I replied. "I am afraid I am not sufficiently qualified for the post. I am not quick, and I am afraid I have not a great many ideas in my head."He looked at me somewhat curiously."I don't know that you are the best judge of that," he answered. "You have been very quick at grasping any suggestion I have made about work. The salary would be sixty pounds, and by and by it would probably be raised. I don't mind taking you into my confidence a little. I am about to start a new periodical on my own account. I have not yet quite decided what form it is to take; but you will readily understand that, with the resources I have at command, I could make it a success. I spoke to Miss Brooks about it some

time ago quite confidentially, and I discovered that she had been
talking about it outside. There are so few women one can depend upon
to hold their tongues. I spoke rather sharply to her, and she threw up
her place in a moment of pique. As I told her, she will probably be
sorry for it before she is many hours older. I can't say I'm very
sorry to be rid of her, because if this new venture is to come to
anything I shall want somebody with brains at my right hand." I might have felt flattered by this remark, following upon his offer of the situation, but I was too much absorbed in serious consideration to be impressed by it."Well, what do you think?" he asked, regarding me steadily with those light, steely blue eyes which could discern so much."What would the duties be?" I asked, somewhat hesitatingly. "I have had so little experience, I am afraid I should not be of much use.""I daresay I am the best judge of that," he said, rather grimly. "The work that Miss Brooks has been doing here any machine could do; it is purely mechanical; but if my new venture really becomes an accomplished fact, I shall want somebody with ideas, and brains sufficient to carry them out. If you are willing to embark in this enterprise, I

shall promise you that you shall not be a loser by it.""I should like some time to think about it," I said; "and I must consult the friend with whom I live.""You seem to think a great deal of her opinion," he said good-naturedly. "If she's a journalist, all I ask is that you don't give me away. I don't want my project canvassed in every halfpenny rag before my plans are ripe, do you understand?""I quite understand, but Miss--" The name was almost out, but by an effort I kept it back, and added, "She is not given to gossip of that kind, she has too much experience and common-sense." I was glad that Mr. Stanton did not appear to notice my confusion."Oh, well, I'm not in a hurry for your answer," he said. "You can let me know within a week. Until I hear from you I won't settle with any one else. Would you like the money for this now?" he said, tapping my manuscript significantly with his fingers. That was one good point about this man whom so many people actively disliked--he was considerate in money matters, and though he paid what Anne Renshaw called "starvation wages," he paid them promptly, bearing out the proverb that "He who gives quickly gives twice." When he

bade me good morning I had a conviction the matter was already settled, and that I should speedily find myself in his permanent employment.It was just about luncheon time, and when I reached the street I was surprised to find Miss Brooks waiting for me. I knew her slightly, of course, by seeing her so often at the Syndicate offices, and we had also met at the Writers' Club."I thought I would wait for you," she said. "Are you going for lunch now?""I don't mind if I do," I said. "Where do you usually go?""Just round the corner. I have only a cup of coffee. I bring my own sandwiches, you see. Well, did he tell you he had paid me off?""Yes," I answered, and I wished I could get away; it was not very pleasant to think that I had supplanted her. She was a pale, anaemic, uninteresting girl, weak both in body and in mind. How she had ever come to be employed by the astute and hard-headed Stanton I could not imagine."Did he offer you the situation?" she asked suddenly. "I thought he would.""Yes, he did," I answered; "but I have not accepted it.""But you will probably," she went on steadily, and at the same time putting up her umbrella, as the rain was beginning to fall heavily."I am not at all sure about it; he doesn't strike me as being a very pleasant man to work for.""No, he isn't," she said, with a somewhat bitter inflection in her voice; "but there are worse. He never leaves you in any doubt about what he means, anyhow. I'm sorry I threw up the place; but when he sneered at me for not holding my tongue, I couldn't help it. Did he tell you about this new paper he is going to start?""He told me something about it; but we can't stand here, Miss Brooks," I said, rather desperately. "Hadn't we better go for lunch? though really I don't think there's any good to be got talking about it.""I want to talk about it though. Somehow I feel that you are going to take on this job, and I'd like to tell you something about Stanton.""If I'm going to take on this job, as you express it, although I'm by no means sure that I shall, I'd rather not hear anything about him," I said.But I saw that there could be no escape; I therefore followed Miss Brooks meekly into the luncheon room."It isn't a nice office to work in, you'll soon find

that out. Stanton is a bully; I suppose he can't help it, he's born like that. He had a secretary before I came who was not afraid to speak to him; her name was Miss Renshaw. She's got on very well, so she could afford to be independent. They said at the office that he wanted to marry her, but I don't believe that. Stanton is not the man to marry his private secretary; he's too ambitious.""He is not married then," I said, rather despising myself for listening to her gossip, and yet feeling a natural curiosity to hear something about my probable employer."Oh, no. He's a self-made man, of course, you can see that; and he never will be a gentleman if he should live to be as old as Methuselah.""I suppose it would be pleasanter to work for a gentleman," I said vaguely, "but after all it doesn't matter much so long as one's relations are purely business. There's one thing I must say I like about him, he never keeps one waiting for money.""Oh, no, he isn't stingy, in himself, I mean, although he is determined to make the Syndicate pay. Will you think it impertinent if I ask what salary he offered you?""Not at all," I answered, and yet I was conscious of a vague irritation as I promptly answered her question."He hasn't increased the salary then, I can't help being glad of that. Well, if you go, Miss East, I hope you will be happy. I must tell you for your comfort there is one gentleman in the office who helps to make things easier and pleasanter for everybody. He is the manager next to Stanton. Perhaps you observed him as you came in, a tall, dark fellow, awfully good-looking, and with such a pleasant smile.""No, I can't say I have ever observed him," I answered. "What is his name?""Giles Fenwick. They said he was in love with Miss Cardrew, who died, you know, but I don't know whether there's any truth in that or not." So she babbled on, and when I left her in about half an hour I felt limp and discouraged. She belonged to the invertebrate type of women, whose chief accomplishment was an endless stream of small talk; in fact, she talked so incessantly that I no longer wondered over her dismissal, but felt surprised rather that Stanton had been able to tolerate her so long.There was a great meeting to discuss the Opium Question at Exeter Hall that afternoon, and I had promised to meet Anne Renshaw at the doors at half-past two. She was not punctual, but I did not find the time hang heavily, being interested to

watch the arrivals. It was to be a crowded and influential meeting evidently. One after another the carriages continued to roll up to the doors, until there was quite a respectable line. By the time Anne joined me, breathless and apologetic, the meeting had begun, and we had no opportunity for speech until it was over."I got an offer of a permanent engagement this morning," I whispered to her, as we pushed our way down the crowded stair at the close of the meeting."Where?" she asked, flashing her beautiful, expressive eyes on my face."Can't you guess? At the Syndicate.""In what capacity?" she asked, and I thought her face hardened."As private secretary to Stanton himself." She did not answer me, and I wondered after a minute or two whether she had heard what I said."I think we'd better take a 'bus home. I've got to report at a reception at the Imperial Institute to-night, and I'm dead tired. Have you any objection to the top?""None, except that it's a bit risky, isn't it, coming out of a hot and crowded meeting?""Oh, it won't hurt me," she answered. "I should

stifle inside; but don't you come if you're a bit nervous about it.""Oh, it won't hurt me either," I answered; and the next minute we were seated on the front seat of the 'bus, the fresh, keen wind blowing up from the river upon our faces."What's happened to the girl he had?" she asked presently. "Has she left of her own accord?""Well, partly. They had some small disagreement this morning, and she threw up her situation in a moment of pique; that was Mr. Stanton's very expression. Do you think I ought to take it, Miss Renshaw?""Why don't you call me Anne?" she asked suddenly. "I think we should arrive at a better understanding of each other if we used our Christian names. Do I think you should take it? Well, it altogether depends. Have you had any talk with Miss Brooks?""Yes, once or twice, and to-day she was waiting for me when I came out.""What a woman to talk! She would reduce me to absolute lunacy in a day.""That, I think, is Stanton's objection to her. He said as much.""Oh, I know she's dreadful, and she has no abilities; she will never rise above the typewriting

stage; but she's a good girl, and very kind to her people, who are very poor. I hope she will get something else to do.""You have not given me your opinion yet as to whether I ought to take the situation or not," I suggested."I'd rather not advise," she answered. "Of course I am prejudiced.""But the money's good," I said. " Sixty pounds is not to be picked up every day, and look what I could do in my leisure time.""There won't be any leisure," answered Anne, looking steadily before her. "Mr. Stanton will take care of that.""I am sure you think I ought not to take it, Anne," I said, in rather an aggrieved voice."Indeed, I don't. I daresay it will be all right if he doesn't fall in love with you; that's a contingency which may be expected to arise any day." So saying, Anne got up abruptly, and began to descend from the omnibus with great speed. We did not talk any more on the subject, but when Anne had gone off to her reception, looking sweet and distinguished in her well-made evening frock, I set myself to consider the situation in all its bearings. The suggestion that Mr. Stanton would fall in love with me did not trouble

me in the least; had anybody but Anne made it I should have been filled with nothing but contempt, but I could guess that her experience had justified it; but then I was not beautiful, but a plain, unattractive, country girl, with only one aim in life, to make a respectable living for herself.Viewed from the common-sense point of view, I thought it would be exceedingly foolish to allow any sentimental considerations to prevent my acceptance of a permanent situation which might lead to better things. I did not stand in the slightest awe of Mr. Stanton, and so long as I could do my work to his satisfaction I had no doubt we should get on well enough. I longed to be able to write home and tell them that I had succeeded in establishing myself in the profession I loved, and by the time Anne had returned, very white and tired from her late function, I had decided to give the thing a trial."It was very good of you to sit up for me," she said gratefully. "Yes, I shall be thankful for a cup of tea. How nice it is to have some one to come home to!""Did you enjoy yourself, Anne?" I asked. "You look so tired I feel quite sorry for you.""Enjoy myself? Oh, well, I never think about it in that light. It's my work; I've got to do it.

By the by, I saw your future employer there. I suppose you have decided to accept his offer?""How can you possibly tell that, Anne?" I asked in surprise."Oh, I thought you would all along. Some things have got to be. I saw Giles Fenwick there, too; you will find him a good friend, Marian; in fact, he would make almost any environment tolerable."So for the second time I heard the name of Giles Fenwick spoken of in precisely the same terms, although by widely differing women. I paid only a passing heed to the coincidence, however, little dreaming in what strange, bitter-sweet ways Giles Fenwick's life was to be linked with mine.VI
A COMPLEX CHARACTERI INDICATED by letter to Mr. Stanton that I was willing to accept the situation he had offered me, and I was surprised to receive a communication from him by return of post, desiring me to take up my duties on the following Monday."That's rather quick work, isn't it, Anne?" I said, tossing the letter across the table to her; she did not, however, touch it. "It's rather rough, too, on poor Miss Brooks.""He'll have paid her a month's salary in lieu of notice. I have known him do that before. Oh no, not to me; I left on my own accord and forfeited a month's salary.""It was well you could afford to do it; I daresay it would make you feel more comfortable.""I couldn't afford it, but I did it, He sent me my salary, but I returned it to him. I have never

enjoyed anything, I think, quite so much as that."These bitter remarks of Anne Renshaw's were not calculated to encourage me in my new career; however, I strove to banish them from my mind, and at the appointed time on Monday morning made my appearance at the office in Bolt Court.There were three clerks in, the outer office standing idly about the fire, but I did not see any one corresponding to the description of Giles Fenwick, who came in hard upon my heels, however, and at his entrance the younger men moved away from the fire and took up their position at their respective desks."Good morning, Miss East," said the new-comer. "My name is Fenwick. You can step into Mr. Stanton's room; he does not usually put in an appearance until ten o'clock."Any one would have been drawn to Giles Fenwick by the tones of his mellow and pleasant voice. He looked a man about thirty. He was very tall, but I noticed in his shoulders a slight stoop, and his face had a somewhat delicate look such as one sees in those who have inherited constitutional weakness. He had a grave, pleasant face, to which the short pointed beard was very becoming. His eyes were blue, and I noticed that

his complexion had that singular transparency and that vivid colouring with which we associate delicate health. He showed me a small retiring-room where I could hang my hat and jacket, and then followed me into Mr. Stanton's room. An immense pile of letters and packages lay on the table."Miss Brooks' first duty was to open all these letters, and have them ready for Mr. Stanton. In Miss Renshaw's time an immense deal of labour was saved to him by this, because Miss Renshaw was very discriminating and knew what to throw in the waste-paper basket, but Mr. Stanton did not trust Miss Brooks' judgment; in fact, she was totally unsuited for the post, and I told him so from the first.""Perhaps I shall be equally unsuited," I said at hazard. "I have absolutely no experience.""Oh, I am sure you will get on all right," he said kindly. "When you have learned to understand Stanton as I do, everything will be plain sailing."I looked up at him with a sudden glance of gratitude, surprised indeed to hear him speak in such terms of our mutual employer. He was the first person who had uttered a kindly word of Mr. Stanton."I am glad to hear you say that," I said involuntarily. "Everybody seems to regard Mr. Stanton as rather a dreadful person.""Oh, he is not that, but he wants a lot of understanding, that's all. There's many a worse man in the profession than Stanton by a long chalk.""He must be very clever to be at the head of a big thing like this.""Yes, he is. Stanton has genius of a kind, and he has had to fight all along against the lack of education; in fact, if he had not been a specially able man he could not have conquered these disadvantages.""He has a splendid business head, I suppose," I remarked."Yes, and a certain unerring instinct, if I may so put it. He very seldom makes a mistake in Syndicate affairs.""And what do you do?" I asked, emboldened by the friendliness of Giles Fenwick's attitude towards me."Oh, I am his literary adviser. I go through the things first, but the final verdict lies with him, and I am glad of it. One gets so weary and disheartened having to reject so much.""I suppose you get a great deal that is unsuitable."I should say so; about three-fourths of the manuscripts sent in are fit for nothing but the wastepaper basket. Have you ever read Thackeray's 'Thorns in the Cushion,' Miss East?""I suppose I must have done long ago, when I read everything Thackeray wrote, but I don't think I recall that particular piece. I was such an omnivorous reader that I am afraid I did not assimilate everything.""Oh, well, I am not surprised you did not remember that particular article. I don't suppose I would have either, if it had not appealed to me so powerfully. It sets forth the sorrows of the editorial chair. If they were so acute in Thackeray's days, what do you suppose they must be now, every third person one meets is a would-be author?"You must get hardened to it, I should think, or it would be impossible to go on.""That's it," said Giles Fenwick, as he leaned easily against the mantelpiece with his hands in his pockets. "There are some things, however, it is not so easy to get hardened to, and that is the letters which accompany manuscripts, begging for consideration on all sorts of painful personal grounds. Would you believe that these letters are a perfect pillory to me? They have quite an

opposite effect on Stanton; they would make a raging lunatic of him in two days, and I never let him see them. If authors could only be made to understand that such personal appeals, giving harrowing details of family history, so far from assisting their cause, only damage it fatally, by causing a sense of irritation in the minds of those who receive them, perhaps we should have less of it."I sat silent, thankfully recalling the fact that I had sent my own humble efforts without a line or a sign, save my name and address, set down unostentatiously at the end of my manuscript."What the writing public has got to be made to understand," continued Fenwick, in his easy, languid voice, "is that editorial business is not conducted on philanthropic lines at all, but in precisely the same manner as any other business whatsoever. It has got to be made to pay at any cost. It has often struck me as a very curious thing that it is the only business in the world in which sentiment is supposed to play a part.""Well, I think that is a very good thing," I ventured to say. "It distinguishes the profession from all others. I for one would prefer to think that it was not a purely commercial enterprise, but something higher and more ideal."Fenwick pushed his long, slender hand through his abundant hair, and laughed. It was not exactly a cynical laugh, but rather one of gentle irony."It is hard to preserve such ideals in the nineteenth century," he added, "in these days of syndicates especially, but I hope you will be happy here and be able to preserve your own ideals. I have read all those things of yours in the St. Dunstan's; they are the true stuff, Miss East. I shall not come very much in contact with you here, perhaps, but before you on your engagement I should just like to give you one piece of advice.""What is that?" I asked eagerly."Don't let Stanton persuade you to produce unlimited fiction for the Syndicate. He'll try it, but I shouldn't like to see you lay waste your powers in that direction. There are hundreds others who are fit for nothing else."Why, that's just what Anne Renshaw is always telling me," I exclaimed involuntarily."Do you know Miss Renshaw?" he asked in surprise."Very well; I live with her.""Did she tell you she was here for four months as Mr. Stanton's
secretary?""Yes, and she does not appear to think much of him.""Ah, there were faults on both sides," observed Fenwick; "but there, I must not stay talking with you now. We shall have Mr. Stanton in in a few minutes, and he will expect to have his letters ready for him." So saying, he withdrew, and I addressed myself to my work, the thought of Giles Fenwick being in the next room giving me an odd feeling of security and peace. I had almost finished my task of opening the letters and laying them ready for the eye of my employer, when he entered the room, bringing with him a whiff of fresh air from the outer world."Oh, good morning; there you are, hard at work already. I suppose Fenwick has been instructing you," he said, in his loud, breezy voice. "Well, I hope we shall get on. I'll do my best; man can do no more.""I shall do my best too," I answered sincerely enough."I'm sure of it. We'll soon get shaken down into each other's ways. Well, we'd better start at once. I'll dictate my replies to you, then you can take them to the next room to the typewriter.""You do not expect me to type them, then?" I said.No, there will be enough for you to do without that You see what a pile of manuscripts we get. There's never any fear of the supply running short," and he smiled grimly as he sat down in his revolving chair and swept the letters with one hand before him. For the next hour I was engaged taking down answers to letters in shorthand as fast as I could write. It was not uninteresting work, and it gave me a curious insight into the mind of the man dictating to me. His unerring intuition and his keen business habit could not possibly have been seen to greater advantage than in that one hour's work. There was a certain mercilessness in his method which rather repelled me just at first, but I was surprised even that first morning at the glimpse of genuine kindness which occasionally flashed out through the dry details of business correspondence. His communications to authors, even those of repute, appeared to me to be imperious and dictatorial. One letter especially caused me to wince ever so slightly, and I suppose he noticed it."I daresay you think that a bit rough on Mr. de Lisle, but I've found it doesn't pay to be too considerate. If Mr. de Lisle doesn't like my address or my terms, he is at perfect liberty to go elsewhere. There is one point I wish them all

to understand clearly, and that is that the Syndicate, of which I have the honour to be the head, does not buy fiction; it buys authors."I suppose I must have looked slightly mystified, by this speech, for Mr. Stanton immediately proceeded to enlighten me."We take up unknown writers, you see, Miss East, and print stuff which would probably find no market elsewhere. Who is to recoup us for our risk if not the authors themselves? That's the meaning of the agreement to which de Lisle refers. Three years ago he came to us an obscure young fellow, almost starving, I believe, and I took some of his stuff, and gave him a cheque in advance too. After a while of course his position and prospects began to improve, and his production showed signs of improvement too, for whatever they may say, a man cannot sustain good work on an empty stomach. Is Mr. de Lisle grateful, do you think? Not a bit of it. He wants to back out of his agreement on the usual plea that there is more demand for his work and that he ought to command higher prices.""Well, but that seems reasonable enough," I ventured to suggest, looking full into Mr. Stanton's steely grey eyes (they were particularly steely at that moment), and the keen, astute, unscrupulous business man looked out of them."But who created the demand?" he asked, curtly. "Who would ever have heard of Mr. Paul de Lisle if it had not been for the Syndicate, or in other words myself? Why, he hadn't even a decent coat to his back when he came here offering me his manuscripts, and now because he finds himself relieved from sordid care he wants to adopt a high-and-mighty tone towards me. That's my explanation of the little epistle which made you wince a minute or two ago."I said nothing. What could I say indeed? His argument was from a certain point of view unanswerable. Again I felt a strange repulsion for the man whose nature seemed to be as hard as the nether millstone, but his next remark changed the whole current of my thought."Well, after you have carried these letters to next door and given the typist her instructions, I want you to do two things for me outside. First of all, do you happen to know where Miss Brooks lives?""No, I don't, but I daresay I could find out," I answered readily enough."Could you? Now that's what I like about you, you never say you can't do a thing. Miss Brooks would just have shaken her head if I'd put such a question to her, and waited for my next remark.

She had no initiative. Well, I want you to find out whether she's got anything to do.""The friend with whom I live seemed to think she would have some difficulty," I said remembering sundry remarks of Anne Renshaw's."Your friend is probably right, in fact she is not worth much to anybody, but I believe she keeps her mother, and does some other foolish things, and she can't be allowed to starve. We'll let her wait a week or two, however, and if at the end of that time she is still out, I'll find her something to do, only she must not know that I have had any hand in it."I was too much surprised to speak. Mr. Stanton was about the last man I should have expected to perform an unostentatious act of charity, but my acquaintance with that strange man was only in its infancy then."I got a letter at my private residence this morning which I want you to investigate. You can read it at your leisure, and then go and find out whether the statements in it are true; that will probably occupy you the greater part of the day. You need not come back to the office unless you like. I shall be gone myself at four o'clock to-day, but I'll hear your report to-morrow."So I was dismissed. I gathered up the loose

sheets of my shorthand notes and retired into the outer room to give the typist her instructions. My mind was a most curious medley of thoughts; certainly I had had an interesting morning, and my new situation was not likely to lack in variety. Giles Fenwick crossed the typist's room as I was speaking to her, and I saw him look at me curiously, as if seeking to inquire what my experience of the last two hours had been. By the time I had finished with the typist I found it was the lunch hour. I put on my hat and jacket and left the office. Before I had got to the foot of the stairs some one came behind me, and looking over my shoulder, I saw that it was Fenwick."Just wait a moment, will you? Are you going for lunch now? Where do you usually go?""Oh, I make a very modest lunch," I answered; "only a cup of coffee and a sandwich or a bun.""A woman's usual lunch, which accounts for half the pallid faces one sees," he remarked grimly. "Now if you were well advised you would have a good substantial meal in the middle of the day.""It would make me sleepy in the afternoon," I said, having vivid remembrances of the mid-day

dinner at home on Sundays, which made us all so limp and useless for the afternoon. "Besides, Miss Renshaw and I have dinner together when we get home at night.""I often wonder what a woman's dinner is like. I'm afraid it's far from being substantial.""I don't know," I said, with a little twitch of my lips. "Last night we had boiled mutton and caper sauce. Wouldn't you call that substantial enough?"At this he laughed, and the sound had a particularly pleasant musical ring in my ears."In that case I needn't ask you to come and join me. I couldn't subsist for the rest of the day on coffee and buns. Well, tell me how you got on this morning. I kept wondering about you all the time I was wading through my own pile.""Oh, I think I got on well enough. What an extraordinary man Mr. Stanton is! Do you know him well?""Yes, I think I may say I do. I have worked with him since the Syndicate was started; that's, let me see, five years ago.""And you don't dislike him?""Well, at times I must confess I most heartily do, but at other times I feel quite a glow of chivalrous devotion to him. He is, as you say,

a strange mixture. I should call him myself a diamond in the rough.""He's a slashing letter-writer," I said. "I never took down so many explosive epistles in my life.""Of course people who know Stanton don't pay any attention to what he writes in letters, any more than they pay attention to half of what he says. There's a deal of froth and bombast in him, but he's capable of the most extraordinary deeds of kindness. I suppose you would find that difficult to believe.""I don't think so. I got two commissions from him this morning which rather surprised me. One is to find out where Miss Brooks lives, and whether she has got anything to do."Fenwick smiled."And if she hasn't he will find her something, and she will go round babbling of her wrongs without the remotest idea that the most of them were of her own creation, and that she owes half the good of her life to the very man she is abusing. That's the world all over, Miss East. I prophesy that before you have been here long your faith in humankind will have sustained a severe shock.""That is what Anne Renshaw is always telling me, but I don't see how a world which contains women like Grace Cardrew and Anne Renshaw

can be so very bad after all. I am convinced that Miss Renshaw is a splendid woman, only I wish she would not make herself so disagreeable. She is like a prickly pear, impossible outside but so sweet and wholesome within.""That describes her well, but I have my own theory about it, Miss East. I think it is because Miss Renshaw is so beautiful that she has cultivated the manner of which you speak.""As a kind of protection," I supplemented. "Why, I never thought of that; of course that is just what it is. How discerning you must be to see it."" I used to know Miss Renshaw very well, but when she had the rumpus with Stanton she gave the cold shoulder to the whole Syndicate, myself included.""Oh, but I think she feels very kindly to you," I said, remembering how Anne had spoken of Fenwick more than once."Well, if you assure me of that I should like to make a call one evening and renew my acquaintance," he said pleasantly.I said nothing. I had not been long enough in London to rid myself quite of the conventional ideas which had abounded in Frensham. I instantly thought of what my mother and sisters

would say if we two unattached spinsters permitted a young unmarried man like Giles Fenwick to make friendly calls upon us without anybody to play propriety, unless indeed we invited up the anaemic-looking Mrs. Upton. The very idea of such a thing made me laugh outright, at which Giles Fenwick looked naturally puzzled."What, may I ask, are you laughing at?""Oh, I can't tell you, not now, at least," I said quickly. "I beg your pardon. It was only an absurd thought that struck me. I will tell Miss Renshaw that you wish to call, and no doubt she will be pleased to see you."Thank you very much," said Fenwick, and lifting his hat gravely, he walked away. I saw that my laugh had in some way hurt or annoyed him, and though I tried hard, I had some difficulty in banishing the last look on his face from my mind.VII
THE GREAT CROWDIT occurred to me that perhaps the most place to hear about Miss Brooks would be the Writers' Club, of which I was now a member, Miss Wheeler having proposed and Anne Renshaw seconded me. It was the only favour I ever asked from Miss Wheeler, and I may say here that I never had any further acquaintance with her, although sometimes we exchanged a word at the club, or in any other public place where we happened to meet. It was not out of my way anyhow to run up there, where I could consult the register containing the names and addresses of the members. I was agreeably surprised, however, when I entered the reading-room to find Miss Brooks herself sitting by the window, turning over the pages of a fashion journal. There was no one else in the room, so that the opportunity could not have been better."Good morning," I said, and she started up much surprised to see me."Oh, good morning," she said. "I thought you were going on at the Syndicate this morning; some one told me so.""Yes, I have been there. I am out now on some business for Mr. Stanton. They don't give luncheons here, I suppose?" I said, with an innocent glance round the room."Not yet; they're talking about it though, after they move into larger premises. How did you get on, may I ask?""Oh, all right," I answered."He would be very fair to-day, of course; he always is to new people. When he gets used to them he doesn't consider their feelings.""I don't think he was particularly considerate of mine," I said, with a laugh, "or perhaps it is that I am not sensitive.""Oh, well, if you're not, it's all the better for you," said Miss Brooks significantly. "I used to feel inclined to cry half the time. His very voice made me jump from my chair with nervousness.""How very trying for you!" and for him, too, I could have added, but refrained, because I was smitten with an immense compassion for the pale,

uninteresting-looking girl, who was so unfitted in every way to fight the battle of life."I suppose you haven't heard of anything else, since I find you here?" I ventured to say."Oh, no; situations are not so easily picked up. I thought I'd try advertising. My mother is awfully angry with me for having left the Syndicate, and things are so unpleasant at home I was glad to get out, and that's the truth.""I hope you'll hear of something soon.""I hope I shall, but the difficulty is, you see, my, having left the Syndicate so suddenly. I ought to have been allowed to stay till the end of the month; but that's one of Stanton's fads: he never will keep anybody in his employment a moment longer than he feels disposed himself. I believe he'd rather pay double the money to get rid of them.""Well, in your case I think it would have been rather awkward staying on for a month, only things might have got smoothed down if you had stayed.""Oh, I'm not at all sorry I have left. He's a horrid man, and I don't believe you'll stay there long. What I can't make out is how a man like Giles Fenwick should have put up with him so long.""Perhaps he understands him--I should think it likely," I suggested.Miss Brooks shook her head."Maybe, but it has always been a mystery to me.""Will you give me your address?" I asked, taking out my notebook. "Either Miss Renshaw or I might hear of something, and if you have nothing better to do, come over one evening and see us.""Thank you, I shall be very glad indeed," said the girl, her cheek flushing slightly. "I want to tell you I don't bear you any grudge for having got my place at the Syndicate, and I hope you'll get on and not allow Stanton to bully you too much.""I'll take care of that," I said; and so we shook hands and parted. I went down into the nearest A. B. C. shop, and, while waiting for my modest luncheon, spread out the letter which I had received from my employer with instructions to find out whether its contents were true or not.It was a woman's writing, and the address given at the head of the cheap notepaper was Mornington Crescent. It was closely written on four sides of the sheet, and set forth various details of family history, which made interesting if rather sad read-

ing. It was signed "Angela Pomeroy," and was a pitiful plea from the heart of a mother for her son. She stated that she was the widow of an officer who had been killed in one of the tribal wars in Afghanistan, that she was without any means of support, and that her son was too delicate to earn his living unless he could do so by his pen. To investigate this case was the task set me by Mr. Stanton. In the ordinary way no doubt it would have been passed over; evidently the case had appealed to Giles Fenwick also, since he had sent it in for the consideration of his chief.My task was one from which I shrank, and yet I could not shirk it. I had received explicit orders to call upon Mrs. Pomeroy and learn the genuineness or otherwise of her story. I asked the girl who brought my coffee whether she could direct me to the address, which she did without a moment's hesitation, and within half an hour I was on the top of a yellow omnibus, rolling northwards from the city. It seemed a long ride, and yet I did not find it tiresome. The wonder of the great city seemed still to lay a spell upon my spirit, and the rush and roar of its traffic was as music in my ears. I was sitting in the very front seat close to the driver, who was obliging enough to warn me when it was time for me to get down.

I was then directed to turn off the busy Hampstead Road, and walking through one or two streets, which wore a shabby-genteel look, I at length reached my destination.It was a quiet, open thoroughfare, with small, rather picturesque-looking houses facing the open space demanded by a great network of railways. The number was easily found, and in answer to my inquiry for Mrs. Pomeroy I received admittance at once. The sitting-room where I found myself was very small and badly furnished, but it had rather a pleasant outlook into a little strip of garden ground, where there was a pink hawthorn-tree in full bloom. The quiet of the place struck me; there was not even a hum from the outside world to disturb it The outlook from the narrow window might easily have deceived one into the belief that the country was not far away. The glory of the spring was not yet dimmed, the tender green of the leaves had been washed by the morning dew, and no stain or soil marred their delicious tone. For the first time there stirred in my heart a vague yearning for the garden of my childhood, which I knew would then be clothed in beauty indescribable. I was still standing in the window, watching a little brown sparrow hopping in and out the pink branches of the hawthorn, when the

door opened quickly and some one came in. Then it occurred to me that I had no plan of campaign in my head, and that I did not even know how to excuse myself to Mrs. Pomeroy for my intrusion.She was a lady-I saw that at once-elderly and wearing a widow's garb. Her face was not beautiful-it bore too many traces of sorrow and care-and her manner had a certain nervousness which seemed to belong to one in a state of perpetual dread."Good morning," I said, beginning to feel a little nervous myself. "I am here by request of Mr. Stanton." A something flashed into her pale face, a gleam of hope and expectation which lighted it up wonderfully."I am very much obliged to Mr. Stanton for taking the trouble to send. Will you please be seated?"I took the chair she indicated, feeling that I was very poorly equipped for the interview; but something had to be made of it, and so after a moment's awkwardness I plunged boldly into the subject."Mr. Stanton has received your son's manuscripts, madam," I said, "also your letter. Of course he has not had time yet to examine the first mentioned; he wished me to come and tell 

you he would give them his best consideration, because your letter touched him; but of course you understand what an immense number of manuscripts he receives, and that it is impossible to use even the half of them.""Oh yes, I quite understood that when I wrote. I am sure that I owe him an apology for troubling him with my family history, but, believe me, I should not have done so if my need had not been desperate. May I ask whether you saw my letter?""Yes, madam," I answered. "Mr. Stanton gave me your letter to read when he asked me to come here.""Are you his daughter, may I ask?" was her next unexpected question."Oh no, madam; Mr. Stanton is comparatively speaking a young man. I am only his private secretary.""Ah, then no doubt you have great influence with him, since he has entrusted you with this commission. I quite understand that Mr. Stanton felt moved to prove the truth of my story. You have my references in the letter, I think; I mentioned the names of two friends who would vouch for me.""Oh, I don't think Mr. Stanton has the slightest

intention of writing for references, madam," I said. "It has nothing to do with the matter in hand; I mean to say it could not affect his acceptance or rejection of Mr. Pomeroy's manuscripts; that, of course, must depend on its own merit.""Oh, I quite understand that. It may be that I am partial, but I think his stories are very well written, and they are true to life besides-not a bit of exaggeration in them. Perhaps you would like to see my son, Miss-Miss--""East is my name," I answered quickly. "It will not be necessary to see Mr. Pomeroy. I will tell Mr. Stanton that I have seen you, and that you are willing to abide by his decision.""I have no alternative, but I earnestly pray, how earnestly you can have no idea, that the verdict will be favourable to my son. As I told Mr. Stanton in my letter, he is slowly dying of consumption. He may linger on through the summer, but another winter in London will certainly kill him. Our slender resources are almost at an end. All I have is the wherewithal to pay for these rooms. We thought them very humble when we came to them first, but soon, unless some success attends Harold's efforts, we must seek something cheaper.""Have you no relatives, madam, who can help

you, no relatives or friends? Surely in your husband's lifetime you must have had many.""Ah, yes; but how few people care to be troubled by those in distress. I have not in the world at this moment any to whom I could apply with the slightest hope of success. On my own account I have tried everything. I had a little teaching in this neighbourhood which brought me in a few shillings weekly, but that has been taken from me--the children have been sent to school; and when one comes to be fifty years of age, and broken down in health and spirits, a woman especially finds it impossible to obtain a remunerative employment."An unaccountable oppression seemed to weigh upon my heart as I listened to this melancholy tale."I do wish you would come and see my son," she said, rising. "He sees nobody, and the very idea that some one had called from the Syndicate office about his manuscripts would please him immensely. Will you come?"I could have very well declined. I was young enough to shrink from unpleasant or soul-harrowing experiences, and yet to decline for no other reason would seem at once heartless and inexplicable.I shall be pleased, if you wish me to see

him, but it is very little encouragement I can give him, I am afraid. You see everything depends on Mr. Stanton, or rather, I should say, on the manuscripts themselves.""Oh yes, we quite understand that. Believe me, my boy is not unreasonable; he knows his own limitations better than most, but he says, and I agree with him entirely, that he has often seen less interesting and well-written things in print, and if he could only make a little it would mean so much to us."This pitiful iteration of their sordid cares saddened me inexpressibly. The natural pride and reserve of a well-born and delicately nurtured woman seemed to be swallowed up in the mother's consuming anxiety for her boy, so when she rose and opened the door, at the same looking somewhat entreatingly at me, what could I do but rise and follow her meekly?We had not far to go; the invalid was in the room upstairs corresponding to that which we had just left. He was not in bed, as I had almost expected to find him, but sitting in a big easy chair drawn quite close up to the window, from which he could see the masses of the hawthorn bloom. He was a lad about nineteen or twenty, with a clear-cut, aristocratic-looking face, a hand-

some boy, and one of whom any mother might have been proud, and yet the scourge and doom of his race was written upon his face so plainly that my heart filled with an unspeakable pity for them both. An eager look was in his face as he turned his head at our entrance, the look of one who always expects and who seldom realises."This is Miss East, a young lady from the Syndicate, Harold," said his mother, "sent by Mr. Stanton with a very kind message. I thought she had better come up and deliver it herself."I felt a trifle guilty, for indeed Stanton had given me no special message to them. My instructions had been simply to investigate the case, but as I said, it was due to myself to explain my intrusion, for these were gentlefolk whose very sorrows entitled them to the most delicate respect."Mr. Stanton is a very busy man, Mr. Pomeroy," I said, "but I assure you your manuscripts will receive consideration. Everything that is sent to the Syndicate, if it is at all suitable, is given consideration.""You have not looked at them yourself?" he asked, with a wistfulness in his eyes which made me dread to look at him."No," I answered, gently. "You forget they only came this morning. It will be several days perhaps before Mr. Stanton has time to look at them, but I will tell him if you like that you would like an answer soon.""Oh, I should. It will mean so much to me," he answered gratefully. "I am very much obliged to you for troubling about my things at all."Both mother and son were too guileless to see anything unusual in my call. I felt myself in a somewhat false position; the whole thing was painful, and yet I could not regret the circumstances which had brought me in contact with these people."I need not stay to trouble or weary you," I said gently. "I will give Mr. Stanton your message. He is very kind; I am sure he will do his best for you.""You must be very busy, of course," said Harold Pomeroy, and I saw that he looked at me with a vague envy, as one shut out from the full joy of living would regard another to whom it was not denied, and I think that touched me more than anything. I made haste to leave lest I should betray any sign of weakness."Perhaps we may meet again," said Harold Pomeroy. "Who knows, if Mr. Stanton accepts

what I have written you might have to come and see us often; then we should have talks about books and all the things which are more interesting to me than anything else in the world, eh, mother? Don't you think Miss East might come and see us sometimes if she is not too busy?""I should like to very much," I said hastily. "I have time in the evenings sometimes; but shall we leave it until the other matter is settled?""You are very kind and sympathetic," said Mrs. Pomeroy, her worn eyes meeting mine with such gratitude in them that I felt ashamed."Oh, I am not, only I have seen a good deal of people's troubles, I think. My father is a doctor, and I used to go round with him sometimes among his patients, that is all."It is impossible to explain how such things are, but it is a fact that when I left the small house in Mornington Crescent that afternoon I felt as if I had known the Pomeroys for years. I was sorry that I had no chance of reporting what I had seen and heard to Mr. Stanton until the next morning. I was impatient for something to be done for the Pomeroys, and I seemed to realize for the first time the power vested in the hands of a man in my employer's position, and yet I knew that unless the things Harold Pomeroy had

written had a market value, Stanton could not be expected to have anything to do with them. I remembered Giles Fenwick's remarks about "Thorns in the Cushion," and appreciated them as I had not done at the time. Of course I recounted my experience to Anne when I got home that night. She was very sympathetic for the Pomeroys, but absolutely sceptical regarding Stanton's disposition to do them any good. Her attitude towards Stanton was certainly puzzling. She had been in his employment for four months and must have had some similar experiences to mine, yet she would scarcely credit him with one redeeming quality. As she would not speak of it, the mystery must remain unsolved for the present, but I did not feel myself biased in the least by her remarks. It is wise, and surely only just, to regard a person by individual experience rather than by hearsay.Mr. Stanton was in a good humour the next day, and listened attentively to what I had to tell him about the Pomeroys."Take his things home with you to-night, and see what you think of them all," he said, but before I left the room I saw him write out a cheque and put it in an envelope addressed to Harold Pomeroy.VIII
IN WORKING HARNESSI WAS thoroughly happy in my new situation. This surprised no one more than myself, unless it might be Anne Renshaw, who had predicted all sorts of catastrophes, which, however, did not take place. As the summer went on Mr. Stanton and I became very good friends, and he showed not the slightest disposition to fall in love with me. I performed my duties to the very best of my ability, and I did not worry him with any unnecessary talk. The work was intensely interesting; finding that I took an intelligent and not too narrow view of my duties, Mr. Stanton gradually relieved me of the purely clerical part of it, and it gratified me very much that he seemed to think well of my literary opinion. Giles Fenwick and I between us carried on the whole literary work of the Syndicate, Mr. Stanton being very much occupied

just then with preparations for the publication of the new periodical he had in view. He had one good quality upon which both Giles Fenwick and I were agreed--he left us a free hand in our acceptance or rejection of manuscripts. It was on the whole a somewhat saddening experience. I do not know anything more calculated to nip a soaring literary ambition in the bud than to be brought daily into contact with the efforts of a large number of literary aspirants. What struck me most, perhaps, was the poverty of idea and the slipshod style of the greater part of these productions. It was only once in a while that we came across a pearl of price, and then we grasped it eagerly, knowing that very soon its author would find some higher appreciation than ours.When I look back I think upon that summer as one of the happiest periods of my journalistic life. My enthusiasm was not yet dimmed, nor my ideals crushed. I had a comfortable situation and a good salary. Certainly I had to work hard; I had not even of an evening many leisure hours, and yet I think perhaps those evenings in the little sitting-room in the Kennington Road are among the pleasantest of my memories now. Very often Giles Fenwick dropped in, ostensibly to talk about business, but the meeting generally dissolved itself

into a friendly reunion, enlivened by a great deal of harmless gossip. Anne Renshaw was very fond of gossip, but not malicious gossip. She talked about her neighbours because she was interested in them, with a healthy human interest which would do them a good turn if she had it in her power; and those were really happy evenings when we gathered round the little table in our sitting-room and discussed the problems of life, both grave and gay, with some little intervals of work in between.One night early in August, Anne and I were alone in our little room with a great pile of papers and books before us, but we had done but little work. The next day we were to start out together for a little holiday. I was going home, and I had obtained permission from my father and mother to bring my friend with me. I was as proud and excited over it as a child over a new toy; truth to tell, I had been more than once very homesick, though I had fought against it bravely and not allowed even Anne to suspect it. All day long I had thought of little else but the old home with its crowd of merry inmates, and most of all, the face of my father was oftenest before my mental vision. Since I had entered upon a working life myself I seemed to regard my father with an understanding sympathy which made my thoughts of him wholly

tender. We were both very tired; the heat of the summer had been very great. Anne especially looked fragile and worn, I thought, as she sat with her elbows leaning on the table, her delicate cheek almost as colourless as the cambric blouse she wore. I looked at her admiringly, and with a real affection. These six months had cemented the first bonds between us into a tie which it would be difficult to break. We had not lived as turtle-doves entirely--I suppose we were too opposite by nature to do that--but while we differed much and strongly on many points, each respected the other's opinion, and we still remained the best of friends."Just think, to-morrow night we shall be at the old place; I can't realise it, Anne, and I can't do any work, that's more," I said, letting my hand fall heavily on the manuscripts which littered the table. "I must just wrap them all up and send them over to the office in the morning. Giles Fenwick must do double work. Anyhow, he's had his holiday, and ought to be strong enough for it.""He didn't look up to much the last night he was here," observed Anne. "I'm always sorry for a man who isn't strong; it must humiliate him so dreadfully. It can't matter so much for a woman.""Well, I don't know," I said doubtfully. "Take yourself, for instance; it would be pretty rough

on you if you didn't have good health, when you have absolutely nothing to depend on but your own exertions.""Oh, something would turn up, something always does," she said airily. "There's some one at the door; I shouldn't wonder if it's our friend Giles come to say goodbye. He's extraordinarily attentive, don't you think?""To me or to you?" I said carelessly. That was one thing I did not like about Anne, and which moreover puzzled me a good deal. She was entirely above most of the weaknesses of her own sex; but it seemed impossible for her to regard relations with men even in the way of business from a common-sense point of view. I suppose it makes a difference when one is beautiful and attracts special attention from those of the opposite sex, but such speeches never failed to irritate me."There you are again, Anne; I'm surprised at you. The only silly speeches you ever make are about men.""There's a good deal of the wisdom of experience in them though," she said lazily; "but don't let's quarrel over it. There's some one coming up, but I don't think it's friend Fenwick's footstep."The door was opened in Mrs. Upton's apolo-

getic manner, and she announced Mr. Stanton. I jumped up; nothing was more natural, of course, than he should come to see me if he had any special message before I left town the next day, and he could not be expected to know who shared my rooms, since I had never mentioned the fact to him. It was an awkward moment I almost gasped as I heard Anne push her chair back and saw her rise indignantly to her feet."I beg your pardon," Stanton said, and his ruddy face was a shade paler than usual. "I was not aware that you were here." She vouchsafed him no reply, but sailed majestically out of the room; Stanton, still looking very much put out, turned to me."I did not know Miss Renshaw was a friend of yours," he said, just a trifle aggressively."We have lived together ever since I came to London," I said."Have you indeed?" he answered. "Were you living with her when you came to the Syndicate?""Yes, I was.""And she knew you were applying for the place?""Yes, she did.""It's a wonder she didn't advise you against

entering the employment of such a monster of iniquity as I am," he said, and the bitterness of his tone indicated that he was a good deal disturbed."She said very little at all about it," I hastened to assure him, "and anyhow it would not have mattered; I had my living to get, and I should not have listened to her.""She did not tell you the true story of her leaving the Syndicate, then?"I shook my head."She has never spoken about it except twice, I think, in the vaguest manner.""Marvellous," said Stanton, almost under his breath; "but there, it shows what kind of woman she is. She mortally hates me--you could see that in the way she left the room; but you can tell her, if you like, that I have never ceased to entertain the highest respect for her.""I shall certainly tell her," I said, wondering more and more what could be behind all this."You can tell her, too, that if I had known she was here I should not have intruded. Well, no doubt you're surprised at my coming from Wimbledon at this time of night. Fenwick's been seedy all day; perhaps you didn't notice, but I saw well enough what was in the wind, but I thought

it would all blow over. He's got one of his bad attacks.""What kind of attacks?" I asked; and I wondered at the leaden weight which seemed to fall upon my spirits."Oh, lung trouble, you know, the thing which will carry him off sooner or later. He got a chill, it seems, riding on the top of a 'bus the other day. You'd have thought a man who's had so many warnings would take better care of himself; but anyhow there he is a prisoner for the next three weeks at least. Of course you can guess what I have come to say?""That I can't get off to-morrow," I said, trying to speak cheerfully, but my heart was very near my mouth. "Well, it can't be helped. I'm very sorry for Mr. Fenwick, and I daresay I can get away after he recovers.""Now I call you a brick," said Stanton heartily. "Most women would have made a row about this, and some I could name would have gone in spite of me; but you won't regret it. You have sense enough to know that the thing can't be carried on unless either you or Fenwick is at the office. I'll see that you have your holiday, and an extra week to make up. Poor chap, I'm sorry for him; he looks bad enough, I can tell

you. Gad! if I was like him I'd put a bullet through me and make an end of it.""That would be cowardly," I said, without a moment's hesitation. "Surely it is the nobler part to make the best even of a life handicapped by ill-health.""Couldn't do it," he said, shaking his head; "but then, you see, I never attempt to reach the heights Fenwick is always on. I suppose it makes a difference when a fellow doesn't get his innings in this world; he's bound to take a different interest in the one to come. I suppose he'll get his innings there, and I'll drop down, eh?"This kind of speech did not commend itself to me, and I suppose he saw it in my face."You think I'm a regular heathen, I suppose. Well, perhaps I am; we won't argue the point anyhow. Then you'll turn up to-morrow morning, as usual?""Yes, I will, and Anne must just go down herself."The words were out of my mouth before I gave them any thought."Oh, was she going with you down to your own home?""Yes, we arranged it long ago.""It's a bit rough on you, then, and I could bet

my boots Miss Renshaw won't take it so calmly as you do; but there, it's business, and it can't be helped. When she's raging at me you can tell her, if you like, that I haven't been a day out of Bolt Court for two years except on Sundays." So saying, he bade me good evening and took himself off.It was quite ten minutes after the door closed before Anne came down."Well, has he gone? I suppose the window won't open any wider?" she said with a curl of her lip."You can try," I answered drily. "I can't go home to-morrow, Anne.""Why not? Now that's just like Stanton, he takes a fiendish delight in inflicting such disappointments on people, just at the eleventh hour, too, when all the preparations are made; and do you mean to say that you're going to submit meekly to such treatment? I thought you'd more spirit, Marian East.""Stanton has nothing to do with it," I answered. "It's Giles Fenwick; he's ill. He will be laid up for three weeks, it seems, and you know as well as I that we can't both be spared from the office.""Poor old Giles! I am sorry for him," said Anne,

and her face softened wonderfully, "but all the same, I think Stanton might have suggested some other plan. You've earned your holiday, and if you don't stand up for your rights, my dear, let me tell you you'll never get them in this world, from Stanton or anybody else.""Oh, Anne, I wonder what put that bitter strain in you!" I exclaimed involuntarily. "It's not natural to you. I'm hoping great things from your visit to Frensham; they're such a jolly lot down there, my brothers and sisters, I mean, and there's nothing morbid about them. I expect you'll come back greatly improved.""Do you actually think I shall go down to Frensham  without you?" exclaimed Anne in comical wonder."Why, certainly. Is there any reason why you should be cheated of your holiday because I am? Besides, it is just possible that Mr. Fenwick may recover more quickly than we expect, and that I shall be able to come down and join you.""I don't think I yearn for the prospect," said Anne, quietly. "I'm not adaptive, and the idea of going down to a big house full of people I've never seen is rather appalling.""Oh, it doesn't matter whether you're adaptive or not, they'll adapt themselves to you," I said,

cheerfully, "and I know you will like my father. I think you are one of the few people who would be able to understand him."She needed a good deal of persuasion, but in the end she consented to go without me, and next morning I saw her off at Euston, and turned back to the hot, stuffy atmosphere of Bolt Court with a distinct ache at my heart.IX
OUT OF THE SWIMMr. Stanton was already at his desk.  I apologized for being late, but he replied gruffly that it didn't matter."I was early on the move this morning, I can tell you," he said presently. "I have been to see Fenwick and called in at the doctor's on my way to the station. He's rather bad; a few more of these attacks, and I shouldn't give much for his chance of life.""Does he know he's so seriously ill?" I asked, and I fancied that my voice sounded strange in my own ears."Well, I didn't ask him. I'm not one of those who believe in bothering people like that. If he's got to die, why then he will, and if he isn't prepared it's his own look out." "I've heard that people suffering from that

particular disease take a very buoyant and hopeful view," I said, going back on my Frensham experiences.""Oh, he's all right as far as that goes; talks about coming back to the office on Monday. Well, did your friend depart this morning?""Yes, she did," I answered, and said no more although I observed Mr. Stanton watching me attentively, as if he wished and expected me to pursue the subject.""I looked in on the Pomeroys yesterday afternoon. I had some business in the Hampstead Road and it just occurred to me that I'd look them up.""Is this the first time you have been there?" I asked. "Yes; I haven't time as a rule to make courtesy calls, but they were so absurdly grateful that I thought I'd like to have a look at them. They're genuine people, and its rather refreshing to meet them, that's all. She tells me the boy has got a new lease on life since he began to work for us.""His things are very good," I said. "He could get more money for them elsewhere.""Let him try, then," observed Stanton, drily. "I pay him Syndicate prices; I can't pay him more. As I said to you, I think, in our first interview here,

there are hundreds who would be glad to do it at the money.""Oh, yes, but they won't write like Harold Pomeroy," I said quietly."Well, I gave him his first innings, and as long as he likes to write for me at my figure he can; when he finds anybody else to give him more he is equally welcome to leave me. Well, just clear up that desk a bit, won't you? I've got to go round and see Stokes this morning; there isn't anything else pressing."I had not been long at my desk, giving my work, it must be admitted, somewhat divided attention, when the office-boy knocked at the door."Please, miss, that's Miss Brooks, who was here before, you know. She asked for the governor, and when I said he wasn't in she wanted to see you."It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I was too busy to see any one, but again that vague feeling of compassion for the girl caused me to hesitate a moment and finally send out a different message. I had seen he several times during the season at the Club, and I knew that she had never found any permanent work. Once she had sent us a story in manuscript which Stanton accepted and paid for, but never used; but we had been obliged to decline the next, it was such sorry stuff. When

she entered the room I saw that she was deeply dejected; in fact, almost on the verge of tears."Mr. Stanton has gone out about half an hour ago," I said, after I had bidden her good morning. "I don't expect him back before lunch.""Don't you?" She sank limply down on a chair and regarded me with a wistful look, which I knew could have but one meaning, even had I not seen the portentous-looking, flat, brown-paper parcel under her arm. "I'm just as pleased to see you; perhaps you could help me more. Do get him to take this story, it would mean such a lot to me. I've had frightful trouble since I saw you. My mother has married again and gone off to America without even asking what's to become of me. I've never had anything to do since I left here, no settled work I mean, and at this present moment I have not five shillings in the wide world.""That's dreadful," I said in a shocked voice, and I seemed to notice with a new keenness her sharpened features and eager, hunted look."When I woke up this morning my first thought was that this was the house tea at the Club, and that I should get a good meal without paying for it. I don't suppose you know what it is to feel like that; I hope to God you never will." She spoke with more passion than I could have believed her

capable of feeling. "Unless I get something to do I shall have to turn out of my lodgings next week," she went on, her gleam of passion gone, and speaking in a low, even, monotonous voice. "My landlady has been very decent to me, but of course she is only a working woman, and can't be expected to wait for her money for ever.""I am very sorry for you," I murmured, and indeed the thing seemed to lay hold of my heart. To be alone in London as this girl was, without prospect or visible means of support, without even mediocre ability which could command its market value, could there be a more heartrending position?"Why don't you take a situation of some other kind?" I asked almost desperately, for I felt as if I had no business to be sitting there at my ease assured of my position and comfortable salary, I who had a good home to which I was welcome to return at any time."As a domestic servant, do you mean?" she asked, with a faint, dreary smile. "That's my last resource. If Mr. Stanton won't advance me anything on this, I'll borrow a sovereign where I can, buy some cotton frocks, and go into the kitchen.""Give me your story," I said, stretching out my hand for it. "I'll tell Mr. Stanton whenever he comes in. I'm sure he'll be able to do something.""Where did he print that other story of mine?" she said, as she undid the string and passed the bulky sheets across the desk to me. "I suppose it went into some of the provincial papers.""I suppose so; I don't know," I answered. I could not tell her that the thing had been consigned to the waste-paper basket. I dared not quench the last forlorn hope in her downcast soul."Are you still getting on all right here? I heard at the Club that Stanton thinks no end of you--that he's never had such a secretary; but you can't say you really like him, do you?""Yes, I do; I think he's a very good man," I answered, without a moment's hesitation. "No one will never know how many kind acts he performs by stealth. Yes, he exacts good service, and he won't allow any slipshod work to pass the bar of his judgment, but that's the kind of man I prefer to serve.""Well, I really think you're the first I've heard speak like that about him. Your friend Miss Renshaw loathes him, but I don't think he's half a bad sort myself. How's Mr. Fenwick?""He's very ill," I said; "but for that I should have been out of town to-day. I had arranged to go for my holidays this very morning, and Miss Renshaw has gone down to Frensham without me.""I wish I were in your place; you're a lucky pair," said Miss Brooks. At that moment the office-boy brought in the mid-day mail, which was so large that she rose to her feet, supposing, doubtless, that I had no further time at my disposal."Well, you'll let me know as soon as you can what Stanton says, and you'll do me a good turn if you can, won't you?" she asked, as she drew on her threadbare gloves. "Don't forget that it's life or death to me. I don't wonder really, as I used to, at the poor creatures who jump over the bridges occasionally. Life is very hard, I think, for women in the world, in London especially; there isn't enough room.""Oh, come now, don't get so far down as that," I said cheerfully. "Things will look up a bit, and you may be sure I'll do all I can to get Mr. Stanton to help you.""Thank you, I thought you would, you're a good soul," she said, and began to move listlessly towards the door. Something in the listlessness of her look and movements seemed to cast a fresh chill upon my heart."Look here," I said. "Just go round to the Club for an hour, and I'll come and fetch you at lunch time. I'm going to dine to-day. What do you say to the Cheshire Cheese? You see I haven't

Miss Renshaw to-night, and so I told my landlady not to prepare anything. Will you promise me now that I shall find you in the reading-room at one o'clock?""Oh, yes," she said, brightening up at once. 'I can promise anything. I've nothing to do; you'll find me there. I don't know what I should do without the Club, and the housekeeper is really very kind to me. Many a cup of tea she has given me without getting a penny for it."When Miss Brooks left the room it was with the utmost effort I could bring my thoughts back to my work. About half-past twelve Mr. Stanton returned, evidently in good spirits, from his interview with Stokes."He's a decent chap, Stokes; he's promised me no end of help for my first number of the Independent Review. Did I tell you it's all arranged to appear on the seventh of October? I want you to do me one of those little sketches that Stokes is so fond of. We must make the first number a strong one if we're to do any good after.""I shall be very glad," I murmured, though not with my usual keen interest. "Miss Brooks has been here this morning.""Ah, has she?" said Stanton. "Well, what then?""She's very hard up, sir; she's never found any-

thing to do yet, and she tells me she is reduced to her last few shillings. She brought this story; couldn't we do something with it?"Stanton shook his head."It's awful rot, and you know it," he said. "The only thing that would make it of any use would be if you were to re-write it, and that's out of the question. Why doesn't she go and live at home and help to clean the house and wash up the tea-things?""She hasn't got a home now. It seems her mother has married again, and gone off to America without troubling her head about Miss Brooks.""Ah, that's a pity. I suppose you think something should be done for her; but she's so incompetent. I never did a better morning's work in my life than that day I took her at her word. I can tell you that without undue flattery.""I'm sorry for her; I wish something could be done.""Well, I'll tell you what; you go down to Frensham to-morrow, and I'll take Miss Brooks on until you come back. It's a fairly slack time, and I daresay we'll muddle through somehow.""But it's hardly quite fair to you, sir," I said, but my heart beat at the prospect, both on my own account and that of poor Miss Brooks."Oh, I endured her for six months once without killing myself or her, so I daresay I shall be able to put in three weeks. I suppose she's coming back, is she?""I'm to meet her at lunch time. If you really mean it, she'll be delighted to come.""Of course I mean it, and after you come back I shall want a great deal of your assistance for the Independent, so we might take her on as a kind of supernumerary. She would be of some use to cut up the letters anyhow, although she has no more discrimination than a cat."I said nothing, but I felt sure my face must have expressed something of what I felt. This was a man who, by reason of his brusque manner and his bullying style of speech, had alienated all from him, save those who had been able to penetrate the surface and find the real kindliness of heart lying there.X
THE LIGHTS OF HOMEI LEFT the office at six o'clock that evening. Next day at the same hour I should be at home. I promised to spend an hour or two at the office in the morning to help Miss Brooks to get an idea of the work. She would not, of course, be so difficult to initiate as a stranger; still I felt that Stanton during the next fortnight would not have an easy time of it. I knew, however, that it pleased him best to be taken at his word; he never suggested a course, or offered anything he was not prepared to stand by. When I got out into Fleet Street that evening I hesitated a moment, looking up and down the street. I had nothing to do, there was no attraction at my lodgings, and I did want to see Giles Fenwick before I left town. My hesitation was merely on conventional grounds, but I resolutely banished

them and took the Underground from the Temple to Victoria, and thence to. Wimbledon. I had never been in that pleasant suburb. I do not wonder that Stanton thought of it so highly. There was a freshness in the air, and the trees were not dust-begrimed as they already were in the open spaces of London. Giles Fenwick had rooms in a small house standing in a pleasant garden facing the Common. I sought it boldly, not permitting myself to hesitate a moment, even at the door. "Why should I not come to see my friend and comrade when he is laid aside?" I asked myself. Besides, I was a working woman, living an independent life, and therefore not under the same trammels as other girls of my age, my own sisters, for instance, who would doubtless be horrified were they to see me now. I was shown into a small sitting-room on the ground floor, Giles Fenwick's room, I knew, because of the books and the rare old engravings on the wall. He had a passion for old prints and engravings, and haunted all the out-of-the-way shops where they could be picked up cheaply. While I was studying them the door opened quietly and a hospital nurse came in. She gave me rather a shock. In the country, at least, one always associates a properly garbed nurse with very

serious illness, and I immediately concluded that Giles Fenwick's doctor must think seriously of him, to require this woman's services."Good evening," she said pleasantly. She was quite young and very pretty. I wondered why that should give me any pang, but it did. "I have told Mr. Fenwick you are here. He wants very much to see you, but I thought it better to tell you that he is very ill, and that you must not talk too much.""I should not do that," I replied. "I only came to learn how he was before going out of town. I need not go up-if you think I had better not.""Oh, I didn't say that. He would be very disappointed. Perhaps you had better come now.""What does the doctor say about him? Does he regard him seriously?""A  double pneumonia in a man of Mr. Fenwick's constitution and family history is serious enough for anybody," she replied gravely.I knew exactly what she meant. I had often heard my father speak in these terms. I said nothing, but followed her up the narrow stair. The room which we entered was not darkened, but it seemed to me very hot and stifling. I saw nothing, however, but the figure on the bed. I stepped lightly across the floor and said hurriedly--"I am so sorry to see you like this. I thought I should like to come and tell you that I am getting my holiday after all. Mr. Stanton has taken on Miss Brooks, and I am going home to-morrow.""That is good news," he managed to say, and the sound of his laboured breathing seemed to tighten the band about my heart. "I shall be more resigned now, eh, nurse?""I hope so," she answered, and her smile was as sweet as her voice."I do hope you will soon be well. Don't let him be rash, will you?" I said to the nurse. "There is no haste for him to get back. Mr. Stanton can telegraph for me at a moment's notice.""You are likely to have your holiday out before he is able for work," she answered, at which Fenwick shook his head."I hope you will have a pleasant time-you have earned it; but don't let them tempt you to stay at home," he said. "Remember, you have found your work in London.""Oh, I should never dream of it. Frensham would seem impossible now," I replied quickly. "But for Anne, I should not have cared to go just yet.""Send me a line, won't you? one or other, or both, if you like; it's weary work lying here, and I should like to know how you get on. I can picture you all. I think you have given me a tolerably good idea of Frensham."I looked surprised, I suppose, not knowing really how much I had talked of my old home to him. I bade him goodbye in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, but my heart was beating rebelliously as I went downstairs."I suppose there is always more or less risk in a case like this?" I said to the nurse at the door."Of course; but we think he'll pull through," she said cheerily, and I thought she glanced at me oddly as I bade her goodbye.I had no intention of telling Stanton of my pilgrimage to Wimbledon; Anne would have said he was the very man to misunderstand it But he spoke of it the moment he came into the office."I went to see Fenwick on my way to the train; he is not any worse this morning. He was awfully pleased that you went last night. It was a kind, neighbourly sort of thing to do.""I thought he would like to hear that his illness made no difference to my holiday," I said lamely. "Many thanks to you.""Oh, that's all right. No word of Miss Brooks yet; now she might have been punctual, don't you think?"I did think so, but had no opportunity of saying so, as she entered at the moment. For the next hour or two I was busy enough getting as much as possible done, so that for that day at least Mr. Stanton might not have his burden added to. I confess I did not envy him during the next two weeks. Miss Brooks's long spell of idleness had not quickened her energies in any way; she seemed slower of comprehension than ever."I hope you'll send for me, sir, if there is any press of work," I said when I went into his room at twelve o'clock. "I confess I don't feel very comfortable at the thought of leaving everything. I shall come the moment you send."" Oh, I sha'n't send unless I feel a dispensation to finish Miss Brooks," he answered, with his queer smile. "I hope you'll enjoy your holiday; you've earned it. Have you any brothers at home?""Only one.""How old is he?""Sixteen; just finishing at Lethbridge before going up to Cambridge."" Oh, that's all right. Goodbye," he said in an

offhand manner. It was some time before it dawned on me that it might be on Anne's account he was anxious about my brothers. At two o'clock I left Euston, and by half-past five I stepped out upon the familiar platform at Frensham. What a thrill it gave me to see my father there! In the old time he would never have troubled to come to the station to meet any of us. We came and went on various visiting expeditions almost without his knowledge, certainly always without his interference. That he should spare the time to come and meet me seemed to mark a change in his attitude towards me. Somehow I felt glad he was quite alone, and yet I wondered at it too. I was in tears by the time I reached him. He took my face in his hands and kissed me fondly. We were nearer each other at that moment than we had ever been in our lives."You look well, Marian, but there are traces of the hard work of which Miss Renshaw has been telling us. You did well to send your herald in advance, my dear."I saw a twinkle in his eye."Anne has been talking too much, dad," I said severely. "I hope you remember that she is a journalist-whose business it is to embroider. How do you like her?""Very much; she is charming, but much too pretty for a girl who has to get her living. She's in the waggonette with Ted outside.""And how are you, dear dad, working as hard as ever?""Quite; but I have just had a letter this morning from Gerald which pleased me mightily. He wants to come home and hold up an end of the stick for me, as he expresses it."Gerald was my medical brother, who after qualifying had started out, after a manner of his kind, with a keen contempt for the homely toil of the general practitioner, to carve fame and fortune for himself. Neither had come, but the two years had taught him something more valuable perhaps--an understanding sympathy with his father's position and work."Oh," I said, "that's news indeed!""He coming up on Saturday to talk it over. If we can arrange the conditions, and Gerald enters into partnership with me, we have the ball at our feet, and could soon build up the best practice in the midlands. He's a clever surgeon, and that's what is wanted here."I was intensely interested, of course, but our talk was cut short, or rather postponed, as we stepped out of the station-house, and there was Anne,

radiant in a pink cambric shirt and the most coquettish of sailor hats, eagerly looking out.How delicious everything seemed after the heat and roar of London! My heart warmed to Frensham! I was in that perilous state when a word is sufficient to start the ready tear. I knew then that I had been genuinely, utterly homesick. Anne saw it too, and even Ted the irrepressible was considerately quiet. So we came to the old home, which is always to the end of time the home of our hearts.  No other can be quite the same, or awaken in us such a passion of joy or pain-pain when it is no longer with us, but only a memory; one which time will never dim. For it is there character is moulded, and we are equipped for the race, well or ill, as the case may be. I am working still in the grey of London streets, and my brother Gerald, with his fine wife and tribe of little children, reign at Frensham; for the old man is not. But they cannot rob me of my memories; the place belongs to me as it never will belong to them--mine by right of a love they cannot understand."I cannot think why you wanted to leave a home like this, Marian," said Anne, as we sat together in our room that night. "I have done nothing but wonder since I came.""Well, you see there were too many of us," I answered soberly. "I am glad I went. It has helped me to a keener appreciation, don't you see? and that is something.""How proud your father is of you, Marian, and how he loves you. It seems to me," she added with a little catch in her voice, "that if I had a father like yours nothing would tempt me from his side.""You like him, then?" I said, with a thrill in my voice. "I thought you would.""I like them all, everything about the place; it is ideal, but he is its crown and head. I call you a lucky woman.""And yet I am really happier working in Bolt Court beside Stanton than I ever was here," I said, with a sigh."Oh, don't speak of Stanton; it is desecration to utter his name here!" she cried angrily."Oh, come, Anne, that is going much too far. It is you who are unjust and unappreciative now," I said rather hotly."Do you think so? You know no better," she retorted bitterly. I looked at her steadily, and hesitated a moment. How often had I longed to ask her a direct question about the real cause of her leaving Bolt Court, but somehow I had not

dared. But here it seemed easier, and my home influences had melted Anne Renshaw, and made her into the veriest woman; in fact, revealed the true woman, which is to be found behind the mask most of us wear. For, after all, we are much alike, and it is impossible to escape always from the limitations of our sex."I wish you would tell me what happened to you there, Anne," I said boldly. "I think it would only be fair anyhow."She was brushing out the bright masses of her hair; it made a veil for the flaming colour in her cheeks. For quite a minute she did not answer me, and I expected an explosion of some kind. To my surprise, she parted the veil presently, and looking at me, said quietly--"You must have guessed. Stanton forgot he was a gentleman; that is, if he ever was one, which I doubt.""I suppose you mean that he made love to you, and I don't see how he could help it."Anne's lip curled."I don't call it making love; he insulted me, nothing less," she said bitterly. "I'll tell you, though it is not a task I enjoy; the whole memory is too hateful. I had got on very well with him, and though everybody had warned me what an

objectionable person he was, I liked him just as you do, Marian. I wondered what they all grumbled about, and prided myself on my clearer perception, precisely as you do. He never said a thing to me that the whole world could not have heard, until one day, as I was writing to his dictation at his desk, he suddenly kissed me."She paused and looked at me, to see whether I realised the full enormity of his offence."It was horrible, horrible!" said Anne, with a little passionate stamp of her foot. "I felt so degraded, as if I had behaved in some light manner. I lost my self-respect from that day, and I don't know that I have ever found it again. It showed me how little respect he had for me, and for women in general. Do you wonder that I feel bitterly against him? I shall never forgive him as long as I live.""But surely he apologized?""Apologised! I didn't give him the chance, I assure you. I left the office on the spot. He wrote to me, but I never opened the thing; I threw it into the fire, and I had never set eyes on him until the other evening in Beaumont Place. You can imagine how I felt. Why don't you say something? Surely you can't defend him?""I am not going to try," I said. "It was

very bad, of course, for him to forget your position and his.""That's what makes it so hard for a woman to get on in London, or anywhere where she has to fight the battle single-handed, and not single-handed only, but handicapped all the time. She can never get away from the sex question.""Oh, nonsense, Anne. I can't allow you to say such things. Your experience is unique, and I must say this, whether it makes you angry or not--it never would have happened to you had you not been so ridiculously beautiful.""That ought to make no difference even if it were true," she answered, with another stamp of her foot."It ought not, perhaps, but men are only human.""Marian, I believe you have no morals, and you secretly sympathise with Stanton. Never mind, perhaps he'll open your eyes for you one day.""I believe I understand him, Anne. He acted on a sudden impulse, and--""For which I had to pay," interrupted Anne. "Pray let us talk of something else."I saw that I had not mended matters by discussion, and almost I wished I had let it rest. Anne was offended past forgiveness. I could

not blame her, and yet, why did I feel sorry for Stanton? I began to fear, as Anne had said, that there was something wrong with my principles. Yet, when I thought of the countless deeds of unobtrusive kindness I had known him to perform, I felt that there was real good in the man. I wished Anne had not destroyed his letter unread, but I dared not say so.She was deeply offended with me, I could see, and she went to sleep, or pretended to, without saying another word. I lay awake a long time, my mind busy and my heart full. Never had life seemed such a large and precious thing; it seemed to me that every faculty of my being was now aroused, that I had awakened from a long sleep. Yes, even the innermost recesses were stirred where lies dormant that which makes for weal or woe in a woman's life. My last thought was of Giles Fenwick, my last prayer for him. In the stress and tumult of London life I had kept to the faith. I still believed in the goodness of God, in His power and willingness to guide and direct the footsteps of His children when they leave themselves in His hand. During the last six months I had proved to the uttermost what a holy and precious thing, precious beyond price, it is to be reared in a Christian

home, and taught the language of prayer at a Christian mother's knee. I had met with many who had thrown off all trammels, who scoffed at religion as an old superstition, and as surely I had proved these to be the superficial workers whose handiwork would not stand. My heart was very tender for them as I closed my eyes that night under my father's roof. Perhaps they had never had my privileges, perhaps no one had taught them where to go for comfort and guidance in the hour of need. And so sleep came to me tenderly, and my dreams were sweet. Once in the night I was disturbed by a noise in the room, and when I sat up I saw that it was Anne sobbing in her sleep.XI
THE "MIGHT HAVE BEEN"IT was a fine, cool September morning when I once more entered the narrow gateway of Bolt Court and ascended the familiar stairs to the Syndicate office. Nothing surprised me more than my own lightness of heart. I had had a delightful holiday, one which would serve as a well-spring of refreshment for the next six months at least. My father's blessing, his words of sweet encouragement and appreciation, still rang their happy changes in my ears, and, I felt strong enough to conquer worlds that sunny autumn morning, as I returned buoyant and glad to my congenial work. I had left Anne in different mood, railing at things in general and the hardship of her lot in particular. She had enjoyed herself so thoroughly at Frensham that the idea of going back was hateful to her, and that very morning at breakfast

she had frankly called me a person devoid of natural affection because I was prepared to begin my day with a light heart. I was in that mood, however, that nothing could daunt or depress me, and I suppose I must have beamed with particular sweetness on Binks, the office-boy, he looked so surprised at my greeting. Binks and I were great friends; by keeping him rigorously up to the mark myself at all times and seasons, I saved him from getting into disgrace in higher quarters, and Binks's term of office had been the longest on record."Glad to see you back, miss," he said, with a broad grin."Thank you, Binks; I am not at all sorry to come back. Has Mr. Stanton come?""Not yet, miss; but he'll be here presently.He's been here every morning by half-past nine since you went away.""Ah!" I said shortly. "I suppose Mr. Fenwick has not been back?""No, miss. I believe he's very bad, leastways he's not been here since you left."With that I passed into the inner room, where I found Miss Brooks already sitting at my desk."Good morning," I said pleasantly. "How have you been getting on?""Oh, all right," she answered, and I thought her

inexpressive face looked brighter and more interesting than usual. "We haven't had a word or a disagreement since you went away.""I'm glad to hear that; but haven't you been very hard worked?""I don't mind the work, and I can't say I am rejoiced to see you back," she said, with a pathetic little laugh, "because, of course, it'll give me my marching orders.""I don't think so. Of course, I can't say anything for certain, but Mr. Stanton gave me to understand that there might be a post found for you permanently.""Did he?" she said quickly, and a dull flush rose to her pale face. "I want to take back a lot of the things I said about him; in fact, all of them. He's been as kind as possible to me, and we've got on splendidly. I think you must have done him a great deal of good."" Nonsense," I said sharply. "You don't know what you are talking about. How could I possibly do him any good? I only do my work here as you did, and we have very little talk outside of it.""Ah, but they all say the same thing," Miss Brooks maintained. "Why, even Binks says the office is a different place since you came to it.""I am afraid you have been encouraging Binks to

forget his place," I said severely, but, all the same, there was quite a glow at my heart, and I could not help wondering whether there could possibly be any truth in the words of Miss Brooks; if so, then life was a fuller and sweeter thing even than I had deemed it."Have you heard anything about Mr. Fenwick?" I asked, trying to speak as naturally as possible. "Miss Renshaw had a letter from him the other day, but he did not say anything about returning to work.""Oh, do they correspond?" asked Miss Brooks, with that particularly lively interest which the average girl betrays even in an incipient love affair."She wrote to him once or twice while she was at Frensham," I answered, with a somewhat mischievous smile, inwardly amused at the interest which was so wide of the mark. "Has Mr. Stanton said anything to you about his state of health?""Nothing much, only that he isn't getting well very fast; at least, I gathered as much from what Mr. Stanton said the other day. I believe he has to go to the Isle of Wight as soon as he is well enough to travel."At that moment the tones of the familiar and

somewhat imperious voice of our chief fell upon our ears. I noticed that, through force of habit, I suppose, Miss Brooks immediately applied herself with nervous concentration upon her work. I, who had not as yet anything particular to do, simply waited until the door opened and Stanton came in."Oh, there you are," he said heartily, "and looking quite genuinely pleased to see me. I hardly expected you.""Didn't you, sir? but I said I should turn up this morning without fail," I said, "and I am a woman of my word.""Ah, yes; well, I suppose you are. Just come inside, will you--there's some things wanting immediate attention. Well, has Miss Brooks been telling you that we have been at loggerheads the whole fortnight?" he asked, with an amused glance at her."No, indeed she's been telling me quite the opposite. I am very glad that things have gone on so well. I should have enjoyed myself much better if I could have been assured of it.""Now listen to that," said Stanton, good-humouredly. "She thought that the entire fabric would collapse the moment she turned her back on it. It is a wholesome but humiliating expe-

rience the best of us have to go through, to bring us to the knowledge that we can be done without."I followed him into the inner room, and he shut the door."We really have got on not at all badly," he assured me then. "Being down on her luck has done that girl good," he said, with a nod towards the glass partition, against which Miss Brooks's head was darkly outlined. "We'll keep her on, at least until Fenwick comes back.""How is he?" I asked, not suffering the intensity of my interest, however, to betray itself either in my words or manner."He's getting on all right; I saw him last night. He's going off to Ventnor to-day. I must say he looks quite like himself, and after a fortnight at Ventnor he'll be able to go on again, I suppose, until the next attack.""Is he in good spirits?""Yes. Of course, you know that people suffering from that particular disease are always hopeful.""What particular disease?" I asked, sharply. "He had pneumonia, but it is possible to recover entirely from that.""But Fenwick is a consumptive, there can be no doubt about it," said Stanton, without a

moment's hesitation. "His father and his sister died of it, and his whole family history is as bad as it could possibly be. Fenwick himself knows it as well as anybody."I turned away my head, a strange, faint feeling seemed to come over my heart; but the last thing in the world I desired was that Stanton should have the slightest idea of the effect his words had on me. His next remark, however, convinced me that he had noticed nothing."Did Miss Renshaw come up with you yesterday?""Yes, we returned together.""How did she get on down among your people?""Very well indeed," I answered. "They liked her very much; my father especially thought I was fortunate in having such a friend."He made no further remark, but immediately seating himself at his desk began to talk of the day's work, and so the old routine began again, and I found each day too short for what was to be put into it. Time passes so quickly when we are fully occupied, that I was surprised one morning when I arrived at Bolt Court to find Giles Fenwick there before me. I was still more surprised, I think, to see how well he looked, so fresh and vigorous it seemed impossible to believe that he

had been through such a serious illness. I told him so even as I bade him welcome back."My recuperative powers surprise no one more than myself," he answered, with his sunny smile. "I have never felt more fit than I do to-day, or more delighted to get back. You are looking very well yourself. You had a nice holiday; and how is Miss Renshaw?""She's very well in her health; but I think she's out of sorts about something," I answered. "I can't just make her out. I wish you'd come along and see her, and give her a good talking to. This morning she was in her most pessimistic mood.""There's nothing I should like better. The memory of the talks you and she and I had together have helped me over many a rough place."I turned my head quickly away. I did not wish him to see my eyes. The tongue we can always control if we will, but sometimes the eyes--mirrors of the soul--are beyond us."May I come in this evening?" he asked. "Just think, it is six weeks since we had one of those delightful evenings. Shall I find you and Miss Renshaw at home?""I think so, at least Anne did not tell me this

morning that she had any engagement. I think she is quite free.""Very well, I shall be round soon after seven.  Stanton has been very kind to me, Miss East; in fact, no brother could have done more. It is these things we have to remember when all men speak ill of him.""Nobody speaks ill of him in my presence, except Anne," I said quickly. "I should not permit it; but she is incorrigible. Do you think that breach will ever be healed?""I don't know," answered Fenwick slowly. "I never heard what it was all about; but I know that Stanton has as high a respect for her as any man could have. Couldn't you, with your infinite tact and patience, do something to restore good feeling between them?"I shook my head."That is a task beyond me, I am afraid. Why not try it yourself?"But he also shook his head.When I got home to dinner that night I found no Anne, but only a pencilled note which had been left by hand, announcing that she had gone on the river with a mutual friend, and would probably dine at Richmond, and not be home until late. I had no means of communicating this fact to Giles

Fenwick nor did it disturb me in the least that I had to receive him alone; in fact, I looked forward to a quiet talk with him, undisturbed by Anne's banter or little cutting sarcasms, which, though they invariably amused, sometimes struck a false note and left a sting of pain.I had scarcely finished my solitary meal when Fenwick was announced. We had quite a wonderful little garden attached to the house in Beaumont Place, very small, of course, but completely shaded by the lime-trees which flourished there as gaily as in any country lane. Anne and I spent a good deal of our leisure in this garden. There was a little summer-house at the further end, where we often used to have tea on Sunday afternoons, and where we could almost delude ourselves into the imagination that we were many miles from the rush and roar of London streets. Although September was now on the wane, there was scarcely a chill touch in the air. We were indeed enjoying the beneficent warmth of an Indian summer."If you are not afraid of the evening air shall we go outside?" I suggested, when the little maid-of-all-work came to clear up. "I don't think you have ever seen our garden; it is quite a wonderful garden for Kennington Park Road; but perhaps you will not stay, as Miss Renshaw is not home.

She will be very disappointed, and you must come another night very soon.""Oh, I can do that," he answered lightly; "but, meanwhile, if you have no objections, I should very much like to stay for an hour and talk to you."I led the way down the little iron stair which opened off the outside hall. We crossed the narrow strip of grass, now rather stunted and blackened by many layers of smuts, and when we seated ourselves in the little arbour we were as secure from observation as if we had been a hundred miles away."It is surprising to find a place like this in the very heart of London, isn't it?" Fenwick said as he sat down in the corner and took out his cigarette case. We had long ago settled the smoking question, and he never needed to ask permission."I am very sorry Anne isn't at home," I said, meditatively. "As I told you in the morning, I am sure she wants a good talking to. She seems out of joint somehow, and nothing seems good in her sight.""Perhaps it is the reaction after the holidays," said Fenwick. "It is a very common experience. There are few come back to work with such a strong heart and a bright face as you did.""That must be because I like my work so much," I answered. "I enjoyed myself immensely at Frensham, and of course it was delightful to see them all again; but, at the same time, I had quite enough of it, and was more than ready to come back.""It is a happy thing for you that you feel like that," observed Fenwick. "It makes your life so much easier for yourself, and somehow you seem to communicate that brave spirit of yours to everybody with whom you come in contact. I have been the better for it myself dozens of times.""I sat very still, surprise holding me in thrall."There seems to be a conspiracy of praise abroad in the land," I said at last, adopting a bantering tone to hide my real feeling. "Even Binks ventured upon a remark of the same sort this morning. Aren't you all afraid of spoiling me?""Not a bit of it," answered Fenwick steadily. "It is only shallow natures that appreciation spoils. I came back to work myself with a better heart than usual this time, which surprised me a good deal. I can assure you just after you left me that day at Wimbledon life seemed black enough, and I think my chief desire then was that I should peg out and be done with it.""Ah, but then you were very ill," I said sympathetically, "and, somehow, it always seems as if a man must chafe under illness more than a woman. Health and strength is his birthright, so to speak, and when he is cheated of it I can well understand how everything else fails.""I have been through all that before," he said cheerfully. "It's nine years since I faced the inevitable, and accepted it. I thought the struggle was over, but I found I had to face and fight it out again. I think this was the worst tussle, taking it all round, that I have ever had.""What do the doctors say now?" I asked."They don't say anything new. Probably if I gave up everything, and went abroad, I might have a few more years added to my life; but I don't think it is worth it. I'd rather fight on here at the heart of things to the end, even if it should hasten it.""Is there no hope, then, of your ultimate recovery?" I asked, and the hopeless sadness of the whole matter filled me with such intolerable pain that somehow I did not seem to care whether he guessed it or not."None whatever. I have always known that, at least, I have known it for nine years. It has been the scourge of my family for generations; fortu-

nately, I am the last of my race, and when I peg out there will be an end of us. It's rather a melancholy thought to a man who is as capable of appreciating the full joy of life as other men, but I suppose there are compensations."The air was very still about us. A little brown sparrow twittering on the ledge of the roof stopped to eye us pertly, as if wondering to see us so preoccupied and sad. Through the hush of the evening we could hear the hollow roar of the distant traffic, softened into something almost like music. To this day I never hear that hollow murmur without having the whole scene photographed on my memory, down to the smallest detail."In my case the compensation will be in the other world, of course," he said presently, in the most matter-of-fact voice, as if he were discussing the merest commonplace. "I am in my thirtieth year; probably I may live three or four years, it depends on circumstances, and perhaps a little on accident as well; but in any case I shall not see middle life. I shall go out like the puff of a candle, in the zenith of my powers, such as they are. The idea of going down to the dust like the beasts that perish does not commend itself to me. I don't exactly know what my religious views are

certainly they are not of the orthodox order; but I am as certain as I sit here that I shall have my innings in the next world. That is the compensation I talked of a minute ago. What do you think about it?"It was some minutes before I could command myself to reply, and when I did so my answer was brief enough."I believe in the justice and mercy of God, therefore I am sure that what you are saying is true."There was a silence between us then, but no sense of distance or misunderstanding, nay, we both felt a nearness to each other which could have but one meaning. I knew that Giles Fenwick loved me, just as he knew that I loved him, and yet no word of love passed between us that night, nor any other night It was one of the dreams which could have no fulfilment here, which have to be left to the great Eternity which no man understands or knows aught of, except through the yearning of his soul towards it.He stayed far beyond the hour, and we talked of many things and of many people, the intimate talk of friends who understand each other, and between whom there is not, and never can be, any shadow. As I bade him goodbye at the door, he

took both my hands in his, and, bending his head, touched them with his lips."God bless you, my friend," he said, and his voice trembled. He was nearer the utterance of all that was in his heart than he had ever been, or than I would ever allow him to be again. Of what use was it to speak, since a great barrier stood between us like a black, impenetrable wall, which neither love nor longing could break down? Renunciation and resignation was all that was left to us, and it behoved us to meet it loyally and faithfully, each striving to make it easier for the other. But that night I was faint of heart I was but a woman; and the yearning of my empty heart would not be stilled. I crept to my own room and locked my door.It may be that some will read this to whom love has thus whispered itself and then for ever passed them by. Only those who have tasted the bitterness of such renunciation can understand my outlook upon life that night. I cannot look back upon it even now without a thrill of pain.And yet, so curiously are we fashioned, that then, as now, I would not change my lonely lot, with its heritage of pain, for any other woman's joy. The compensation of which Giles Fenwick spoke did not fail me in my hour of need.XII
A LONELY WOMANANNE was certainly out of sorts. In a day or two I saw that she was physically ill."You'd better see a doctor, Anne," I said one morning when I found that she was unable to get up, and feeling very feverish and miserable."No, I won't. Don't worry me. I hate doctors, especially in their professional capacity. I will not be a case; leave me alone."She spoke so fretfully, and yet with so much decision, that I saw
it would not be wise to say any more, but on my way to Bolt Court I
stopped at the first telegraph office and wired to my father, asking
if he could possibly come up to see Anne without delay; then I went to
my work with a heavy heart. I hoped, and indeed almost expected, that
he would come. He and Anne had taken to one another in a way which

surprised us all; indeed, during the last week of our stay they had been quite inseparable, and had I been of a jealous nature, I might have resented the evident pleasure it gave my father to have Anne with him on his drives, sitting in the seat which I had always looked upon as mine; but I loved them both so dearly that it gave me nothing but the sweetest pleasure to see them thus. I was the more hopeful because I knew that he had given Anne a half-promise to visit us soon. Matters had been satisfactorily arranged at Frensham with my brother Gerald, so that for the first time in his professional life my father could take a holiday without a qualm. Within an hour Binks brought in the yellow missive which contained the words I hoped for. He would leave at two o'clock, and I might expect him at Euston at six.I was sitting poring somewhat abstractedly over this brief communication when my chief entered. Since my return he had reverted to his old habits, and now often did not appear at the office until eleven o'clock."Helloa, a telegram," he said quickly. "I hope no bad news.""Oh no," I answered. "It is from my father. He's coming up this evening.""Is he? I hope you'll give me an opportunity of seeing him," said Stanton, with very marked courtesy. "I should like to thank him for the way in which he has brought you up."At this I laughed outright."I am afraid he did very little of the upbringing, he was always so busy. You ought to take a trip down to Frensham and thank my mother.""Ah, but I notice that it's of your father you speak most," he said shrewdly. "It's a good thing we kept on Miss Brooks; you'll want a little freedom when he is here.""You are very kind to think of that," I said quickly, "but I don't think on this occasion there will be much going about, for me at least. He's coming up really to see Miss Renshaw, who, I am afraid, is very ill.""Ill, is she?" said Stanton, and I saw his face change. "What's the matter with her?""That's what I want to find out," I said. "She looks to me as if she were taking some virulent fever, and as she won't allow me to send for a doctor, I thought of this. She liked my father very much, and of course would not dream of refusing to see him.""Ah," said Stanton. "You are a most devoted

friend. There are not many who would take so much trouble.""You don't know what I think of her," I said quickly. "I would do anything for her, and I know my father feels just the same. She is so splendid, no one knows her so well as I.""There are others who would very willingly do anything for her, only they are denied the privilege," said Stanton slowly; "but, honestly, do you think she is seriously ill?""I do," I answered, without a moment's hesitation. "She would not let me take her temperature or do anything, but all the same there are certain symptoms which nobody can mistake. Will you look at this letter, sir? I don't know what to say about it." Thus I turned the subject, so absorbed in my own anxiety that somehow his did not come home to me in the least. I observed, however, that he seemed very restless and unsettled all day. He would go in and out with a great deal of unnecessary fuss, but he never mentioned Anne's name again, nor did I. I hurried up my work so as to get to Euston in time to meet my father. I had run home at the lunch hour to find Anne, if anything, rather worse, and I even wondered whether I was doing my duty in waiting for medical advice until my father's arrival. The

train came in to the minute, and somehow my whole anxiety seemed to roll from my shoulders as I looked upon my father's face."Well, little woman, what's all this about? What's that young woman been doing to herself? She was all life when she left us the other week.""I don't know, dad; she's been out of sorts for quite a week, and so cross and irritable, quite unlike herself. I am so thankful to see you. You see I didn't know what to do, she absolutely forbade me calling in anybody, but of course if you hadn't been able to come I should have had to get another doctor in spite of her.""I am very glad to come. I like her, and I'm sorry for her. She doesn't seem to have many friends.""It's her own fault, dad," I said eagerly. "You see she won't make herself agreeable to people unless she really likes them. She won't do anything expedient, in fact."At this my father laughed."Have you learnt the way of the world so soon, Marian? But come, tell me, what kind of place is it where you live? Can you put me up?""We could," I said doubtfully, "but of course it is very plain and simple, as befits two young women who have to get their own living. You

might be more comfortable here, for instance," I said, indicating the Euston Hotel with the point of my umbrella."If you have a bed that you can offer me, I'll stay with you," he said, and we got into the hansom together and drove away. I had ordered dinner to be ready at our lodgings, determined that whatever he might decide, my father should eat his first meal in London with me."Why, you're very comfortable here," he said, looking round the cheery little sitting-room with genuine approval. "I'll just wash my hands and go and see my patient first."" Will you ? " I said eagerly. " Perhaps it would be better. I wonder if I should go and tell her you have come.""Not at all; just let me go in. She won't say a word, I promise you."I took him to my room, and waited on the stairs while he washed off the dust of his journey. I cannot describe the pleased, proud feeling that was in my heart as I thus waited for him. I had him all to myself He had come at my bidding without a moment's hesitation, and somehow I felt now that he had come everything would be right. I suppose something of my adoring love must have been expressed in my face, for when I joined

him on the landing presently, he stooped down suddenly and kissed me."Now for the patient, little woman."When we entered the sick-room we found Anne sitting up in bed, her bright hair all disordered about her flushed face. She frowned a little as she saw the tall figure behind me, not recognising him."Now, Marian, what did I tell you this morning?" she began, sharply; then suddenly she gave a little cry and held out both her hands. "Oh, Dr. East, is it really, really you?" and then she gave way to a childish burst of weeping such as I had never seen her exhibit before. My father sat down beside her and took her hands in his, soothing her in his own inimitable way. For forty years he had been trying to ease somewhat the burden of pain to which humanity is heir, so here he was at home, and the spell of his comforting presence soon began to lay its wonderful balm upon our spirits. He did not weary her with a long string of questions, but all the time I saw that his keen professional eye was on the alert. I also noticed that his face grew graver as the minutes passed. When at last we left the room he turned to me the moment the door was closed, and said quickly--"We must get a nurse at once; it's a typhoid

case, and it'll go hard with her. I'm blaming myself. Don't you remember that day I drove her to Taxer's Lane when the epidemic was at its height, I told her she'd better wait for me on the other side of the hill, but when I came out of the cottages I found her in the very middle of the village. She only laughed at my reproof, and she seemed in such splendid health at the time I thought no more about it.""Oh, that's just like Anne," I groaned. "She doesn't care for anything. She won't take the smallest precaution. Can you stay and look after her? I don't know how she would take to a strange doctor.""I can stop a bit," he said, "for a week at least, until we see how she gets on. We're not so very busy down at Frensham; Gerald can easily manage, and if not he can get Bancock's assistant from Tothill to help him. I'll look after her; it's a life worth saving."We had scarcely finished dinner when there came a loud double knock at the door. Somehow I was not in the least surprised when Mr. Stanton was ushered into the sitting-room. He did not look at all shamefaced or put out."I thought I'd come round and ask what your father thought of Miss Renshaw," he said, and

without waiting for my introduction he extended his hand to him."This is Mr. Stanton, father," I murmured, and the two shook hands, at the same time eyeing each other with that peculiar scrutiny with which interested persons favour a new acquaintance."I must thank you for your kindness to my daughter," said my father, and I knew from the heartiness of his tone that he was favourably impressed. This pleased me more than I could tell, because of course I had wished them to meet, and I had also wished my father to like my employer."I don't know that I have shown her any special kindness," said Stanton abruptly. "She's the best assistant I have ever had, and as I said to her this morning, I thought it my duty to come and thank you for the way in which you have brought her up."This speech broke the ice, and the next moment they were talking as if they had known Bach other all their lives, but all the while I detected the same furtive anxiety in Stanton's manner which had impressed me during the day."Just tell Mr. Stanton about Anne, father," I said presently, "and I'll run up to a Nurses' Home I know of and fetch a nurse back with me."So I left them together, and when I returned I found that they had gone into the garden to smoke. I wondered what Anne would say if she could see them. Although my heart was heavy, I could not forbear a smile at the thought. I did not see him again; he left when I was busy over the arrival of the nurse. To her instalment Anne made not the slightest demur. From the moment my father entered the house she was like a child in our hands, perfectly quiescent and grateful for the smallest service. It was not until we had made her comfortable for the night that I found myself at liberty to have a cosy talk with my father. Arrangements had been made for him to stay in the house, indeed I had given up my own room and retired to the smaller attic, and in spite of my anxiety over Anne, I was happier than I had been for many a day."Now tell me what you think of Stanton, father," I said, as I filled his pipe and stirred the little fire to a brighter blaze. I knew his love of a cheerful fire, and though we did not really need it for heat, somehow it seemed to comfort and uplift us, and we drew our chairs quite closely together, feeling that peculiar sense of companionship which precedes a real fireside talk."I think I like him," said my father medita-

tively, "a shrewd man and one of strong character. What is the relation between him and Miss Renshaw? Quite evidently he is in love with her.""Do you think so?" I asked, with breathless interest."Why, certainly. He was at no pains to hide it, but as far as my memory serves me, any time I heard her speak of him it was never in complimentary terms. Is it a case of unrequited affection?"I hesitated a moment, and then decided that in the circumstances it would not be a serious breach of confidence to tell my father what Anne had told me, especially as I knew that whatever I might tell him would be as buried in the grave. He did not speak for a minute or two after I had finished."It's a queer story," he said at last, "and I can understand the effect it had on a proud nature like hers. She will not forgive easily, but it is possible that this illness may soften her. Poor thing, I hope we'll be able to pull her through."We had a hard fight for her life. For three weeks my father stayed in London, running down twice in the interval to see how things were going on at Frensham, and I have no hesitation in

saying that to him and to the nurse, who so faithfully carried out his instructions, Anne owed her life.All through that time two visitors came constantly to the house in Beaumont Place, Stanton and Giles Fenwick. There was something indescribably pathetic in the devotion and anxiety exhibited by Stanton. He made not the slightest attempt to hide it, and every day he called he was laden with fruit and flowers and all sorts of impossible dainties which our patient could not touch. At last, however, the crisis came and went, and Anne lay back on her bed white and weak and spent, but herself again, all the delirium gone. She did not say much for the first day or two; my father, indeed, was the only one who could rouse her to speak at all."I have been very ill, haven't I, Marian?" she said one day, after she was able to be propped up a little in her bed. "Touch and go, wasn't it? I feel as if it must have been.""Yes," I answered soberly. "We had a hard fight, but we've managed it, and all you have got to do now is to get well. Dad is going home to Frensham to-morrow, he says, but he will come back in a fortnight or three weeks to take you down."Her eyes filled with tears, and an indescribably soft and tender look came on her beautiful face."How good everybody is to me, and I don't deserve any of it; that is what troubles me.""If we think you deserve it it's all right," I said cheerfully. "Now don't go exciting yourself; we've got to keep you quiet, you know, so as to give you every chance.""I'm not exciting myself, Marian; but there is one thing I want to ask you. Of course I have been off my head. What did I talk about?""Well, you see I was very little with you," I said vaguely, but at the same time I turned my head away so that she could not see my face. "It's the nurses you must ask. I don't suppose they paid any attention. I shouldn't worry about that if I were you.""I feel sure I must have talked a great deal of nonsense," she said doubtfully. "Where did those lovely flowers come from?" she added suddenly, as her eyes rested with lingering affection on a lovely bowl of roses, standing on the table by her bed. "Roses in October!" she said, as she put out her frail white fingers and touched them lovingly, "and such a heap of them; they must have cost a king's ransom. Who was guilty of this frightful extravagance?""A friend of yours, Anne," I answered, beginning to tremble in spite of myself. Some day I meant to tell her everything, to paint Stanton's devotion in colours which must leave their mark, but though my opportunity had come sooner than I expected, I felt unequal to the task."I didn't know I had such a generous friend; who was it?" she asked, with a touch of her old imperiousness."Well, if you must know," I said, rising quickly, and beginning to gather up my work preparatory to flight, "it was Mr. Stanton, and that isn't a tithe of what he has done. Why, even I, dearly as I love you, have been ashamed dozens of times over his generous devotion." And so saying I fled the room, leaving her to digest my words at her leisure. I expected nothing but that she would command the nurses to remove the obnoxious gift, but they remained until a fresh lot came in to replace them, and we never mentioned the matter again.She picked up her strength with wonderful rapidity, and at the beginning of the third week my father returned and pronounced her able for the journey. The busy winter season was beginning, and he had not time to stay more than a night. It was all arranged hurriedly, and next morning I saw them off at Euston, and went back

to Bolt Court feeling as if I were left out in the cold. My pilgrimage to the station made me nearly an hour late at the office, and I found that my chief had arrived before me. He had allowed me to take all sorts of liberties during the last six weeks, knowing my anxiety concerning my friend, and I felt that it was my duty now to apply myself with redoubled energy to my work so as to make up for lost time."I must apologise for being late, sir," I said, the moment I entered the inner room. "My father arrived unexpectedly last night, and I have just been seeing him and Miss Renshaw off at Euston.""Oh, he has taken her down, has he?" said Stanton. "I am glad he thinks her well enough to be moved.""She doesn't look very grand even yet, I think," I said rather sadly, for I had been struck at the station by Anne's frail look, "but my father says they have the Indian summer at Frensham still, and that she can be out of doors the greater part of the day.""Humph! Frensham must be a favoured spot," he said, glancing through the window, where a fine October rain was beginning to filter through the grey and soundless air. "And how long will she stay there, do you suppose?""Indefinitely, I think. My father says that she will not be fit for work until the spring.""So long as that?" said Stanton, and his face fell. There was a moment's somewhat awkward silence between us. He was the first to break it."Did any one tell Miss.Renshaw that I had called to inquire for her?""Yes, sir; I told her. She knows all about it.""And has her loathing and contempt for me abated in any degree ?" he asked. There was the faintest suspicion of bitterness in his tone."I don't know, sir. There is a side of Anne Renshaw I know nothing about. Will you excuse me if I make one suggestion?""Why, certainly, I shall be glad to have it. I daresay you have guessed long ago in what esteem I hold Miss Renshaw.""Well, I think you ought to go down to Frensham soon and see her. Don't write or give the faintest possible hint of your intention, but just go."At that moment we were disturbed by Binks announcing that a distinguished client had come to keep his appointment, and so we could not pursue the subject.Next day he did not turn up as usual, but I never for a moment expected that he had taken

me so literally at my word. The following morning what was my surprise to receive a brief pencilled note from him couched in these terms:--"DEAR MISS EAST,--I shall never be able to acknowledge or repay the service you have rendered to me. You will observe from the above address" (which was the " Old Bell " at Frensham) "that I lost no time in putting your suggestion into execution. I saw Miss Renshaw to-night, and matters have been cleared up between us. I am afraid to say more, except that I am a happier man than I deserve or have ever expected to be."Always yours gratefully and faithfully,"ARTHUR STANTON."It was a long time before I heard what actually did transpire at Frensham that memorable evening. Stanton arrived early in the afternoon, and putting up at the Frensham inn, took a leisurely survey of his surroundings before he ventured near our house. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when he found himself at the gate, a beautiful sunshiny afternoon, which might have deluded any one into the idea that summer was still with us. He did not approach the house by the front gate, but took a circuitous route through the orchard at

the back of the house, and there quite suddenly he came upon Anne, all wrapped up in shawls, and with a great bearskin rug about her feet, sitting in a little open space between the laden apple-trees, and wearing a look of sunshiny content upon her face. What she felt or thought when she saw him come through the trees I know not. She had not time to think of the past or to call up any of the old bitterness. She did try to rise, but the next moment he was kneeling on the green turf at her feet, absolutely careless of the fact that they were overlooked by half the windows of the house. He cared nothing for that; it was a matter of life or death to him. Once lost, this opportunity would never come again."Why have you come here?" she said, speaking with difficulty, but not harshly or bitterly. "Who told you I was here?""That is not difficult to guess," he answered, "and in any case it matters nothing. You know, what I want, what I have never ceased to want since that miserable day we parted. Will you forgive me, and give me a chance to prove in what esteem I have never ceased to hold you?""It was cruel and wicked," she murmured. "I trusted you; you betrayed that trust. How can I ever forget?""Let me teach you," he cried with a great earnestness, and all his heart was in his eyes. "I can never forgive myself. I shall never try to excuse myself in your eyes; but give me a chance to atone, I say. I shall never love any woman but you; give me the right to take care of you.""Once I could have done it willingly," she said slowly. "I was very happy in your office; I have never been so happy since; but it can never be the same.""Give me a chance," he pleaded. "You have everything in your power; you can make of me what you will."Then she smiled, and he, greatly daring, took her to his heart.In the former sense, London knew Anne no more. Within a month the little world which knew Stanton; and in a less degree Anne Renshaw, was startled by the announcement of their marriage. It took place in the old parish church of Frensham, and my father gave the bride away. They drove straight from the church to the station, and set out upon their journey together to the sunny south, which dad declared was what Anne required to restore her fully to health. Giles Fenwick and I went back to London by the even-

ing train, feeling the whole responsibility of the Syndicate resting on us. Stanton had thrown the trammels from his shoulders with a perfect indifference which amazed us. But we forgave him everything because of his ridiculous happiness, and I, chiefly because of the new light which now rested on the face of my friend."The lights of London," said Fenwick, as we neared our journey's end, breaking what had been a long, long silence. "I don't think after all a wedding is what it is cracked up to be; do you?""This is the only one I have ever been at," I answered. "Don't you think they'll be happy?""They? Oh, yes. I wasn't thinking of them," he answered, and when we thundered into Euston we both felt glad. There was no lingering at the station. He simply put me into a hansom and bade me goodbye in his most matter-of-fact voice. And it was better so. For we had go hopes which could have fulfilment here; our lives must for ever run in separate channels, and at times we both rebelled.But from that day to this our friendship has never faltered, and we still meet in the busy mart of life, and sometimes in the by-ways when we are strong enough to bear and make no sign. As I said, I am a solitary woman still, growing grey in

the grey of London streets, basking at times in the sunshine of other homes, knowing well that I shall never have one of my own, at least in the sense that Anne has it. When I am with her or thinking of her, I am at my brightest and best, for Anne Stanton is a better woman than Anne Renshaw ever was; a better woman and a happier. It would seem, indeed, to the ordinary eye that she has all this life has to offer to a woman's heart. But I would not change places with her, even to be worshipped and cared for as she is by the man to whose character she has given the touch it needed.No, for I, too, thank God, like many another lonely woman, have my
compensations.THE WHINSTONE COTTAGETHE WHINSTONE COTTAGEWE stopped one day before a little whinstone cottage standing in an old-fashioned garden well back from the road. A neat wooden fence, painted a sober green, protected it from marauders, and from the wicket-gate a broad walk led up to the door. The door stood wide open that summer morning, and the Doctor walked in as if he had a right. Then I fell to speculating about the inmates, as I often did, sitting on my perch in the gig seat. I liked the quaint, quiet, tasteful look of the place, and the two rows of big white pebbles (the "chuckie stanes " of my boyhood) appealed, as to some half-forgotten memory. Also I saw that all the curtains and under-blinds were composed of darned netting, such as I had seen my mother and my Aunt Robina labour at for hours. They were fierce rivals in the matter of patterns, and they would pore over sundry mouldy old books of needlework in search of them as if it was the

one object worth searching for in this world. The Doctor stopped a long time in the Whinstone Cottage, and I had abandoned my idle speculations before I saw him at the door. He was not alone there. In company with him was a small old lady, of pattern so neat and compact that I could not civilly keep my eyes off her. She looked any age from forty to sixty, and everything about her suggested other years; the pattern of her gown, the long, shiny silk apron, the curls, and the big cap with the lappets at either side were such as I remembered in my boyhood. Her face was as striking in its way as her dress. It was certainly the very smallest face I had ever seen, and the little bird-like eyes, fixed just then with an expression of keen anxiety on the Doctor's face, seemed sharp and keen enough to look into the very heart of things. They talked earnestly for a moment or two, then came down the pebbled path together, and I thought they talked of me."David," said the Doctor at the gate, "Miss Allardyce remembers your father. She says she saw him as a boy in his uncle's house in Hill Street, Edinburgh. She would like to shake hands with you for his sake."I took off my cap, and rose from my seat. She

spoke first, and her voice was thin and high, but not without its sweet note."Very well do I remember him. He was stopping there one Christmas time, when my mother and myself were bidden to dinner. He was a very wild boy and full of mischief, but everybody liked him, and after he went home he sent me his portrait and some rock from Faulds. I kept it in tissue paper and a scented sachet till I was sixteen; and I have the portrait to this day."The prettiest soft blush rose to her thin cheek as she made this absurd confession, and it seemed to set us all at our ease. She stood by the mare's head, and gently stroked the glossy neck, with a caressing touch the dumb creature was quick to understand."I have always loved animals. I was brought up among them. You are not like your father, Mr. Lyall. He was very dark, and his hair curled beautifully. There are not so many curly heads now, Doctor. Sometimes I think they have gone out with the kind hearts.""Treason, Miss Phemie," said the Doctor, shaking his head. "There is still a little savour left in the salt.""Yes, and will be, just so long as you and such as you are spared, Doctor," she answered, quick to

make amends. "But, ah me! you are few and far between.""Have you got my father's portrait still, Miss Allardyce?" I ventured to ask. "I have often heard my mother say she wished she had an early one. The first she had was when he was three-and-twenty.""Oh, indeed; but in mine he was only fifteen or sixteen. One day, perhaps, when my brother is better, you will come in and see it.""I should like to," I answered, and the Doctor raised his hat, shook hands with Miss Phemie, and we drove away."She looks like a miniature," I ventured to say when he did not pass any remark."Ay, she does--something of that sort. I was wondering, lad, whether there could ever come a time in a doctor's life when he would be justified in helping a fellow-creature across the bar.""What do you mean?" I bluntly asked."Just what I say. In the Whinstone Cottage there lives with Phemie Allardyce a big lumbering brute of a man who is her brother, and who has kept her in perpetual martyrdom for the last ten years since ever they came to Amphray.""Who or what is he?""He has never been anything but a wastrel all

his days. Their father was a coffee-planter in Martinique, and this Peter Allardyce has all the vices of the Anglo-Indian and none of his virtues. He was born out there, and it may be that some of the poison of the atmosphere got into his blood. He got the place when his father died, and sent his sisters home. There were two of them, and they opened a little school in Edinburgh, where they just managed to get a living. All they ever had from their father's estate was sixty pounds a year. They were quite happy until he came home to torment them. He was lazy, he drank and smoked, and made a pandemonium of their little home; their school dwindled away, and finally Katrine, the elder, died. She was the strong-minded one, and it might have been thought that Phemie would have sunk under her misfortunes. But she did not. She sought out this place and brought him away, a broken-down wreck, from all his cronies, and tried to save him. She's kept him from the drink, Heaven knows how; but his temper is awful, and he gives her no peace. She does all the work of the house, cooks his food, and is always sweet and forbearing. How is it done, David? Tell me that.""I wish I knew," I answered honestly; "and I question if it is the best policy.""It's the only policy for women like Phemie Allardyce. God help them! It's to be hoped there's something eye hath not seen laid up for them yonder, David. It's certain they don't get their innings here."For several days we heard or saw nothing of the Whinstone Cottage, the Doctor's whole attention being absorbed by an intricate and serious case at a lonely dwelling some miles up the glen in the opposite direction.On Sunday morning before church he walked up to Miss Phemie's to inquire for her brother. I did not see him until after the service, and then he told me Allardyce was worse--in fact, seriously ill."I shouldn't be surprised though this was his last bout, Davie. He's played ducks and drakes with his constitution. The amazing thing is that it should have lasted him so long. Maybe you'll take a bottle of medicine round to her after dinner. I'll ride to Cleughside this afternoon--it's the quickest way."Now the Doctor paid only necessary visits on Sunday, and only urgent calls were allowed to interfere with his attendance at church. Also every one in his employment was free for church service, and if there was medicine to be delivered,

he took it himself. I was glad to be of use, and inwardly pleased to pay a visit on my own account to the Whinstone Cottage.It was about three o'clock when I opened the garden-gate and walked up the pebbled path. On a low, green bench beside the door sat Miss Phemie, with a Bible open on her lap, and her thin hands clasped above it, her face so sweet and composed that she might have been asleep. She was asleep, I discovered presently, and I turned to leave, feeling somewhat ashamed even to be a witness to her fatigue. But my foot on the gravel, though I tried to step lightly, disturbed her, and she started up."I fell asleep, I am afraid," she said with a swift apologetic smile. "Pray excuse me. I was up the greater part of the night, and it was so still and pleasant here, I suppose I forgot myself. I was reading the twenty-third Psalm--one never tires of that.""No," I said rather lamely. Her direct and simple piety rather put
me out. We are not good at expressing our feelings in the Dale,
especially in matters pertaining to religion. "I ought to apologise
for intruding on a Sunday afternoon, but I have come with the medicine
from the Doctor."'Ah, that was good of him. He is always mindful. I had better go in and give it to my brother. Will you step into the sitting-room? I have found your father's portrait, and made it into a little packet for your dear mother, whom I never saw."It is impossible to put into the words the sweetness with which she spoke.I followed her across the clean white doorstep and across the little passage to the sitting-room, where she left me with a word of quick apology. I was not sorry to be left. Sometimes I think I have a womanish interest in the rooms where people live and move and have their being. They seem to me always a true index of character. A man makes his surroundings, and, except in very few instances, is not made by them. Miss Phemie's sitting-room was like herself-quaint and pure and bright, with a touch of old-world beauty and charm. The furniture was such as connoisseurs hunt for in the second-hand shops in these days, and for which they are willing to pay fabulous sums. A corner cupboard held an old-fashioned blue-and-white tea-set, the cups without handles; the sideboard looked like an old, dresser, its marvellous polish intersected by fine lines of gold such as I had never seen before; the

chairs were covered in needlework, every stitch finely and evenly wrought, telling of marvellous skill and patience; and the engravings on the walls, in their polished ash frames, were worth a small fortune. I was studying them when somewhat hurriedly, I thought, Miss Phemie came back to the room."Mr. Lyall, my brother would like you to come up and see him. He is very dull lying there, and sees no one. You will excuse the request. He is very ill, and must not be crossed.""Of course I will come," I answered, and, thanking me, she led the way upstairs.The room above, though spacious, was very low in the ceiling, and lighted by a projecting window on the roof. It was very poorly furnished, and the sick man lay upon a kind of camp-bed drawn near to it. He turned his quick, restless eye on the door as we entered, and the forbidding expression on his large, coarse face somewhat relaxed. It was hard to believe that there was any tie of blood between these two: they looked like denizens of a different sphere. Evil-living had left its mark on Allardyce's face, and his wicked, ungrateful, ungovernable temper was writ large upon it."I did not think she'd tell you," he grunted to

me by way of greeting. " Come in, sir, and sit down. And you need not stay, Euphame; two men can entertain one another."She smiled a little uncertainly, looked appealingly at me, and glided away.I did not offer to sit down. I could only look at the unlovely object before me with a strange mixture of pity and disgust."She's told me about you. So you're the Doctor's nephew. I don't care much about him. He's too rough on a chap-hardly flesh and blood himself, I tell him. He told me to-day I am getting played out. Well, the sooner the better. This isn't life nor even existence, tied to a woman's apron-string. She's very mim, isn't she? Butter, wouldn't melt in her mouth, but I tell you she's a tartar. Wouldn't give a chap a drop to wet his whistle with if he were dying."I stood by awkwardly, oppressed by his singular bad taste in thus criticising his sister to a man he had never before seen."It's an awful thing to be shut up with an old maid. They've no bowels of compassion. But I've had my day. Gad, what days and nights I've had with the old cronies! Ay, ay, every dog has its day.""It's a pity you're not able to be out of doors

these fine days," I said lamely. Never in my experience had I felt myself so completely at a loss. Suddenly he leaned forward, with a look of wolfish eagerness on his face."I say, couldn't you get me a drop? For the love of God, do! I'm dying for it. I'd perjure my soul for it at this moment, only it's perjured long ago."I shook my head."I have none, and besides, the Doctor has forbidden it.""The Doctor--bah! I tell you, he isn't flesh and blood. She's got it in the house somewhere. I dreamed I had found it, and I will find it, if I swing for it."He looked so diabolically vindictive at the moment that I began to have some dim conception of the tragedy of Phemie Allardyce's life.I did not stay long. Where was the good? It was impossible to enter into any intelligent conversation with the man, and when he saw I was in no mind to help him in the only way he wanted help, he had no further need of me. She was waiting for me at the stairfoot with a little packet in her hand."That's the picture for your mother. You did

not find my poor brother very good company. To-day you see him at his worst. He has been very tiresome all night. More than once I thought I should have to give up and run for the Doctor."I said nothing until I offered my hand in parting at the gate."Dear madam, if I can be of any use, pray command me. I will come and sleep in the house to-night if you like. The Doctor does not need me."Her eyes filled with tears."Oh, thank you--thank you. If the Doctor approves, I should like. I am not very strong, and he has very bad nights. I don't think I could stand many more.""Then you may expect me about ten o'clock, but probably the Doctor will be here himself before then, and will settle everything."My heart was full of a young man's compassion for the weak and the helpless, and as I walked up the street I felt that it would have relieved me to have shaken Allardyce in his bed. The Doctor approved my plan, and I spent that night at the Whinstone Cottage. What a night it was! Even yet I remember its terrors. Only those who have had the care of a drink maniac could understand it,

and it is not a subject on which one cares to linger."Is he often like this?" I asked the pale woman watching with me."Oh yes, often. I have got used to it a little, only of late somehow I seem to have lost heart. It must be that I am getting old."He spent his strength before the dawn, and when the Doctor came in about six o'clock he was in a state of collapse.He did what he could for him, and as we walked back together he assured me that he could not live through the day. He died at sunset, and a more melancholy deathbed I have never seen or heard tell of. It was absolutely without hope.Miss Phemie's composure was a thing to marvel at She would have no help from the neighbours. We understood that she shrank from letting any of them see the inwardness of things. She had kept it secret so long. The Doctor came, however, and with his own hands helped her in the last details. I never thought him greater than at that moment I saw him step into the breach and minister to a woman's need."Now, Miss Phemie, we'll lock the door," he said, "and you'll come home with us."She uplifted her sad eyes gratefully to his even while she shook her head."He cannot hurt me now. I was more afraid of him in life. I will stay.""I can sleep on the sitting-room sofa if it will be any help," I ventured to say. But again she shook her head, and understanding that she wished to be alone with her dead, we left her; and somehow we had little to say as we walked home."She'll pray all night, David. I saw it in her eyes. She's thinking of him as a lost soul, and her gentle spirit cannot bear it. We are outside a heart so pure and strong and self-sacrificing, we can only wonder and stand aside."Two days later we buried Allardyce quietly in a corner of Amphray Kirkyard, and after the funeral the Doctor went up to the Whinstone Cottage to see her. He was a long time there, and when he came back to the house I thought he had a queer look on his face."She's lived away from earth these two solid days, David, and this day she's like one who has gotten a new lease of life. She believes that God has heard her prayers, and that her brother will not be lost. She does not know anything about theology, but she can draw large drafts on the bank of faith. She'll be happier now, poor soul,

than she has been all the years I have known her."He was right. The Whinstone Cottage stands out in my memory as the abode of faith and peace and quiet joy. There Phemie Allardyce abode till the day of her own death, making a little spot of sunshine in a wintry world. And there Death wooed her when she was very old, stealing upon her kindly, without pain, in her sleep.Like Enoch, she was not, for God took her. And in my mind there is no doubt that the fullness of the new life compensated a thousandfold for all she had borne and suffered here.A VILLAGE BLACKSMITHA VILLAGE BLACKSMITHI DID not come across Andrew Whitehead so often or so easily as I expected, and a few days after my arrival in Amphray I made my way, early in the afternoon, into the village to hunt him up. The Doctor had gone to Edinburgh on some professional business, leaving me free to amuse or interest myself. I knew that Andrew's father was a blacksmith; more about his family he had not told me. Country lads attending town colleges are not usually garrulous regarding their folk or affairs. When they are you may be certain they have in reality little to boast about. I would always trust the reticent man further and quicker than the man of abundant speech. The Lowland Scot is cautious in this as in most other things. The University of a great city is a very leveling place. In my day class distinctions were not recognised--brain was the thing. And the cottar's son from Wester Ross who bore all before him

was honoured far and above the Earl's son who did no credit to his Alma Mater. Andrew Whitehead had done only moderately well that year, and had lost the medal and the scholarship which ought to have been his. For he could as easily master an examination paper as a sixpenny novelette, and with as much pleasure. He was not lazy, but he trusted too much to his brilliant parts, and I had seen him depart from Edinburgh a fortnight before with a glum look on his face and I guessed he feared the righteous ire of his father, the blacksmith of Amphray. It was a long, straggling village, not compact in any part. I found the smithy at the upper end standing well back from the road, with a big tree and a draw-well before the door. I wondered casually whether Longfellow had seen Amphray in his dreams when he wrote his eulogy of the Village Blacksmith. James Whitehead, Andrew's father, might have sat for the portrait. He was shoeing a big, solemn-looking farm-horse at the moment of my arrival, and I sat down on the stone parapet of the draw-well to watch him. So long as he was busy and the clang of the hammer mingled with the blast of the big bellows I thought it better not to disturb him. I looked at him, but I was not at any time conscious that he returned the look. He

seemed intent, body and soul, on the task in hand. And he did it well, handling his tools with the master hand, delivering the blows of the hammer true every time, and without so much as opening his mouth. The halflin' lad who had brought the beast stood in the doorway, with his hands in the pockets of his moleskin trousers, his face the picture of vacuous ignorance. The blacksmith, I imagined, disdained him mightily. He never so much as cast a glance in his direction, nor did he speak when the beast was turned out with four new shoes ready for the road. He stood a moment with his brawny arms akimbo in the wide door of the smithy facing me, so that I got a good look at him. He was a big man, and had no look of Andrew about him. His face was grim and even sad; there was something about him which made me wonder. He looked like one who had been long at war with forces he could not control. I got up, and approaching the door, gave him good-day.He replied civilly, but without cordiality, at the same time looking me up and down with his keen, far-set eyes, as if seeking not only to learn my business, but to gauge my spirit."My name is Lyall," I said quite humbly. "I am a friend of your son Andrew. Is he at home?""No, my man, he's no. So ye're a frien' o' his, eh?""We have been very friendly in the last session," I assured him. "And I promised when I came to Amphray to look him up.""So ye're bidin' in Amphray; wha wi'?""Doctor Howden.""Oh, is he sib to ye?""He's a second cousin of my father," I answered. "Is Andrew in?""No, Andrew's no in; he's no at hame ava. I thocht it best for him an' me, but especially for him, that he should gang awa for a time.""But he was looking forward to his holiday, and he needed it," I said boldly, recalling Andrew's pale, worried face the day we had parted at the Waverley Station. "And he was looking forward to spending the summer in Amphray.""Imphm, well, he's been disappointed, that's a'."The grimness with which he spoke cannot be reproduced in words. It had to be seen in order to be felt. In spite of these discouraging signs I was determined to be at the bottom of Andrew's mysterious disappearance, which I rightly attributed to the fact that he had disappointed his father's hopes."Is he far away?" I ventured to ask. "I'm

stopping a week at the Doctor's, and if it is in driving distance I'd like to look him up.""So ye would, would ye? To be at your auld pranks, eh--the pranks that hae disgraced him in his class, an' putten an end to his college days?""Oh, I say, Mr. Whitehead, you don't mean to say you won't let Andrew go back. Why, it would be no end of a shame.""It'll be the end o' shame, ye mean, lad, for him an' me. He's had his chance, an' it's by; noo he'll taste honest hard work, an' plenty o' it.""But where is he? I'd like to write to him," I said desperately, feeling I could not let go of Andrew so lightly.The smith took another large, long look at me, and his mouth relaxed a little."He's in Liddesdale, wi' his uncle, Alec Whitehead. He's weel up in the breakin' o' young colts. He'll teach him that a man's life is no intended by his Maker to be a' play."I stood for the moment aghast, recalling the highly-strung, sensitive soul of the lad whom they sought to mould into shape."It can't be done," I said involuntarily."What canna?""You'll never break in Andrew to the plough, smith; he's a scholar and a poet.""A what?" roared the smith in a voice of thunder. "I'll hae nae son o' mine sic a useless object on God's airth. Whaur in the Bible div ye read aboot poetry an' sic abominations? tell me that.""The psalms of David," I put in boldly, "and the prophecies of Isaiah are nothing but poetry from beginning to end."The smith glared at me, but less fiercely, and when he spoke his voice had fallen again to its ordinary quiet but rather harsh cadence."I see ye'll stand up for the lad tooth an' nail, an' perhaps it's but natural in them that are young." Suddenly his voice changed and took a wistful note. "Ye seem a decent, ceevil-spoken lad. Maybe ye'll tell me the truth aboot Andra. Was he ill-daein' in the toon?"I know my eyes flashed the indignation I felt."No, indeed; whoever told you that lied, Mr. Whitehead.""Naebody telt me, but what for has he dune so little, an' lost a' the prizes? I'm a puir man, an' I hae made sacrifices to gie him his college lare. He has disappointed me, an' I was angert, justly as I thocht."Then I stood still, sore troubled in my mind how to explain Andrew to his father. I could not

conscientiously say he had worked honestly and steadily through the session; he had simply dawdled, meaning and doing no evil, but with the same disastrous results. There are men who cannot brook failure, either in themselves or any belonging to them. James Whitehead was one. He was only a blacksmith, but he was a good blacksmith, the best in his own countryside. And that fact represented and embodied his idea and outlook upon life. He had but one son, and the fear that he would become a failure was sore upon him, and he found it altogether intolerable."He's very young," I said, but stammeringly, "and everybody likes him. The man that has a lot of friends at any college has to fight for a place. They're always round about him, stealing away his time.""That's nae excuse; he kent he was sent there to work, and because he has the brains it was the mair sinfu'.""You'll change your mind and send him back to Edinburgh in October, or there will be a general mourning," I said boldly."Better a general mourning than a single funeral," he said shortly. "It's easier tholed. I say, lad, tell me honestly if it be that you hae

lived thick wi' my son? Hev ye ever noticed anything queer here?"He gave his lined forehead a significant tap, and I started back."Good gracious, no!" I cried hastily. "He's as sound as you or me. Whatever makes you ask such a thing?"At that moment I had the answer to my question put unexpectedly before me. The sweet, plaintive notes of a woman's voice singing an old ballad drew nearer, and presently a girl appeared through the garden gate. She wore a pink cotton frock and sun-bonnet, and she was knitting a stocking. She looked about twenty, and had the sweetest face I thought I had ever seen. But there was something lacking. I could see that as she looked at me with wondering eyes."Run to your mither, Annie," said the smith, and a surpassing tenderness, which amazed me mightily, chased all the stern lines from his face."Is Andrew comin' back?" she asked plaintively. "He's a long time awa'.""He'll be back sune: run in an' see if the tea's ready, lassie," her father said, and she slipped away obediently, crooning as she went."That's my dochter; I've three like her," he said as he wiped his brow with the back of his

hand. "For some reason or anither the Almichty has laid His hand heavily on me an' mine. I built my houps on Andra, maybe ower high, but I dinna ken what I hae dune to be so sair hauden doon. Nae man can say that I scamp my wark, or that there's an idle bane in my body. An' I pay my way. Can ye tell me what ails the Lord God at Jeems Whitehead, the Amphray smith?"The question came upon me so suddenly, sweeping my brain as it were like a gust of January wind, that I found no word wherewith to answer. I have never forgotten that terrible wind of questioning, nor the fierceness of the look that accompanied it. And I remembered how at the first glance of him I had thought he seemed at war with forces invisible."I said to the Almichty that Andra, bein' a lad bairn, an' a' richt here, as I thocht," he went on, with another tap on his broad forehead, "I wad mak' him a minister, but since he winna work, it wad seem that mine maun be the sacrifice of fools.""Andrew would not make a good minister. He is not one to bind in shackles," I said hastily, speaking as I felt and believed."A weel, he maun earn his bread by the sweat o' his broo like his faither afore him, an' I'll let the

Almichty an' His plannin' alane efter this. I'll dae my day's darg for them that maun eat an' drink by it. I've said my say."Then he turned to the forge and blew the bellows till the fire was at white heat again, which seemed to satisfy him, though he had no material thing ready to be tempered by it.Feeling myself dismissed, I turned to go, when he spoke again."So you're at the Doctor's? Are ye gaun to be a doctor yersel'?"I answered that my ambitions did not lie in that direction."Weel, ye micht dae waur; he's a fine man, the Doctor, wi' a fell understandin' o' the ways o' weemin," he said, and on this dark saying I was destined to ponder for many a day."Ye can ca' in in the bygaun if ye like. I dinna blame ye for Andra's idle set. Ye look a likely lad yersel'."Thus absolved from blame where Andrew was concerned, I went my way, but my heart was sore for my friend, and I determined that I should write or see him before the summer was done.I drove to Fountainwells Station, seven miles distant, to meet the Doctor at half-past seven that night, and I was quick to tell him how long the

day had seemed without him. He smiled, and I imagined his face had a far-away look."I've had a queer day in the town, Davie. There are days in a man's life of which he has no clear conception afterwards except that they have added one more to the burden of the years. Tell me what you've been about.""I tried the burn in the morning, and got three half-pounders for your dinner. Then in the afternoon I went to look up Andrew Whitehead.""But you didn't see him, he's been banned the parental roof.""What for?" I asked. "I never saw any ill in Andrew.""What did you think of the smith?""A very queer man. He seemed anxious about Andrew's upper storey. Is his own quite right?""Oh, quite; he's been a man sore tried. His wife has never been right since a fright she got a few days before her daughter Annie was born, and the three girls are all deficient. The smith and Andrew are the only sane members of the house.""And do they all live there?" I asked, aghast."Yes, they are quite harmless, and but for the something lacking, as bonnie a lot of womenfolk as one would wish to see. The smith has borne well the tragedy of his life. He spoke to me long

ago about Andrew being a minister, and I was struck by his queer point of view. He thought he had angered the Lord, and that making Andrew a minister would propitiate Him. Now I hear that he is grievously disappointed, and has sent him into Liddesdale to his uncle.""They are queer men in Amphray. Brodie thought the same. For me, I would call it presumptuous to imagine I was of such importance to the Almighty.""Every man here away is important in his own eyes, and it is not a bad thing, Davie, within limits; it is the dignity of man.""I had a letter from the Byres this afternoon, Doctor. My grandfather wants me to go home on Monday.""Does he? Write and tell him I am not near done with you yet, lad. You and I are but at the beginning of things, and I've a mind, now you have come, to keep you."And then it was tacitly decided that I should remain indefinitely at Amphray. Now, looking back, it seems a full and fair period of my life, as rich in memory as any part of it. And the lonely figure of my kinsman, the Doctor, stands out, giving to those memories all their sweetness and light.AN UNFORGOTTEN DAYAN UNFORGOTTEN DAYWE had come in from a long round in the remote parts of the moorland parish, and were soaked to the skin. For the Lammas floods had descended upon Amphray, and the rain through which we had driven was no common rain, but a solemn and business-like downpour, which did its work thoroughly. I was young and strong, and the sight of the swollen burn with the drift on its breast rejoiced my soul; also I had visions of a still hour by the waterside when the floods should somewhat subside, and the frightened trouts should venture from their hiding-places and become possible trophies, to be carefully weighed with the balance on the right side and bragged about afterwards, as is the angler's way. There was hot soup ready for us, which we partook of after we had gotten into dry garments. Then the Doctor anxiously eyed the lowering sky from the gable window of the dining-room, which looked up the glen."We've got to take the road again, Davie. I'm sorry. If you like I'll take a gig from the 'Steeple Inn.'""Not likely, unless it's somewhere you think my driving would not be safe," I said, with an attempt at facetiousness which made him smile."There's a message from Torphinn," he said."I hope there's nothing wrong at Brodie's; but there can't be, we were there this morning, and you said everything was going on right.""So it is; the message came from Torphinn House, from Mr. Maitland Elliot, and I must go at once."I thought there was a queer look on his face, an odd restraint in his voice, but I took no notice."What horse shall I put in?""Bob, in the hooded gig. Tom Kay will be back to-morrow or Tuesday. I daresay you'll be glad, Davie.""No, I won't. I could stop here all the summer fine," I answered, sincerely enough."I'm in no hurry for you to go, lad. When you do go I shall wish you had never come.""Don't say that," I cried quickly, and with an odd lump in my throat I went off to the stables.We had been but seven days together, but they had sufficed to knit our hearts one to the other in

the bonds of no common love. I had never spent days so full and satisfying away from my own home. Again and again I blessed the happy inspiration which had brought me to Amphray.We were soon upon the road again, and though the rain fell steadily still, the sky was breaking up, and there was some lifting of the heavy mists on the hills. We were very comfortable and dry under the big hood, and Bob covered the ground splendidly. The roads were hard and clean, having been washed by the spate till nothing but the metals was visible."I wonder you don't ride oftener in this; it's a jolly comfortable thing," I said as we prepared to leave the turnpike and take the hill road."It came from America. It was a present I got," he said. And after a full minute, added, "From the lady we are going to see."It was borne in upon me that the Doctor, for some reason or another, was not in a talkative mood. So we drove in silence, and before we came to the familiar road-end leading to Brodie's farm he directed me which turn to take. It brought us by and by to a grey stone cottage by a massive iron gate, one of the lodges on the estate of Torphinn. We had not to wait; the gate-keeper seemed to be on the look-out for us, and

the gates swung back as I turned the horse's head. The approach to the house was through two lines of stately plane trees, so thick with shade after a warm and rainy June that it was as if a sudden gloaming had fallen upon us. The place was beautifully kept; a broad edge of turf like velvet edged the wide gravelled road, upon which not a single weed could be seen. The Doctor's face grew graver, I thought, as we approached the house, and there was a far-away look in his eyes as of one whose thoughts are with the past. But when we emerged from the shadow of the trees and saw the grey pile of the fine old family house before us, he sat up, and the alert look returned to his face."This is a beautiful place," I said as my eye caught the gleam of the lake to the left and the dainty brown figures of the deer among the trees."It is. I haven't alighted at this door, David, for nineteen years--ay, nineteen past on the thirteenth day of April last. It was the Fast day. I remember it well."I thought it strange, but there was no time to put a further question, for we swung round the curve to the door, and a man-servant came out to us at once.To my surprise, the Doctor shook him by the hand, and as they walked together up the terrace steps I heard him ask for his welfare and that of all belonging to him. He was an old man with a kind, honest face. I may be wrong, but I had imagined a tear in his eye as he wrung the Doctor's hand. Then I was left for what seemed a very long time to my own meditations. I grew tired of watching the deer in the open spaces of the park, and I wondered at the long patience of Bob, who never moved a muscle. At last the old man came out again."You are to come in, sir, if ye please, and here is the lad who will take the horse to the stable for a bite and sup."I felt surprised, but got down, nothing loth. I had made many speculations regarding the interior of that stately house, and the inmates, made more interesting to me by reason of the Doctor's singular reticence regarding them. The old butler led the way across the spacious hall into the library, arid there left me. It was a beautiful, sombre and stately place, book-lined from ceiling to floor; the furniture brown oak, the carpet a rich red, into which the foot sank at every turn. A long French window stood wide open to the lawn at the back of the house. Near it a tea-table was

spread, and before I had time to collect my thoughts the sound of voices signalled some approach. The door opened, and the Doctor entered with a lady by his side. Many long years have passed since I first saw her whom I learned to hold in such reverence and love. But as I saw her then, so I see her now. She was very tall, and carried herself with the pride of carriage seen in noble birth. Her face, without being beautiful, bore the stamp of a rare high nature and a sweetness of disposition I have never seen excelled. Her eyes were grey and very soft under their sweeping dark lashes. When she smiled, as she did upon me at the moment, they seemed illumined as if with some light from within."We have kept you waiting an unpardonable time, I am afraid. Had I known, I would have sent some one to your relief ere this," she said, as the Doctor introduced me to her by name."It did not seem long," I murmured.She was the sort of person you would spare a moment's annoyance or vexation if it came even remotely within your power.She smiled again as she sat down to the table and began to put the sugar in the cups. Then I saw the matchless beauty of her hands-their shapely contour, the delicate, tapering fingers,

their snowy whiteness. There was about her a singular and womanly charm; everything she wore was part of a gracious personality; she looked like one who would always say the right thing and do the fitting deed. I was so taken up with her that I had scarcely looked at my kinsman, but I became conscious as we talked together in a most friendly and natural manner that some mighty change had come upon him. He looked ten years younger as he stood back from the table a little, and there was a look of one who had been suddenly lifted to a high place. It was borne in upon me that there was something hidden, some inwardness between these two with which no stranger might intermeddle.She directed the most of her talk to me, and I noticed when the Doctor spoke that there came a still and lovely look into her eyes, as if her heart were stayed in some hidden trust upon his very word. The air seemed charged with some fine essence emanating from spirits that understood one another. And I could not set down here, though I were offered a high price, what was the main subject of that half-hour's talk, for I have no recollection of it. When it was over and we prepared to go she accompanied us to the door."Goodbye," she said to him, "until to-morrow. Thank God, only till to-morrow."I made haste across the terrace steps lest they had that to say not for my hearing, but she was quick to call me back."And you will drive the Doctor and wait for him in the library. I think you ought to be a lover of books; many a book-hunter has spent a happy day there."I thanked her and sprang to my seat in the gig. She stood a moment more, and I saw that she seemed pleased looking at the gift she had given him so long ago.The Doctor took off his hat, nor did he replace it on his head until she had waved her hand and disappeared. I was not surprised that he did not speak as we drove down the avenue, and we had passed the road to Brodie's Farm and were clear out upon the Amphray turnpike before he opened his mouth."I've had a lesson this day, David," he said at last, "a lesson I needed sorely. The silence of twenty years has been broken, and I am a man convicted of malice and all uncharitableness.""Not towards her, surely?" I said hastily. "No man worthy of the name could be guilty of it.""You have read her aright, I see," he answered

like me well pleased, but at the same time somewhat surprised. "And for that reason I will tell you a part at least of that which no man has heard from my lips until this day--the hidden story of my life. Twenty years ago I loved the woman you saw to-day as my own soul, and though she is another man's wife, so I love her to this day."She never knew it," I cried hastily, "or she would have been your wife, never his. I don't care who he is."Hush, lad. I have come from his side to-day, and he is a dying man. She knew, and I think, though no word passed between us, that if things had been otherwise she might have been my wife. But she was in a higher station, and she belonged to a family whose pride has ever been a marvel. For they had nothing to be proud of except their poverty and their grey old house with its traditions, which are the possession of everybody that knows the history of this parish. When I came first to Amphray as Dr. Plenderleith's assistant and successor he was in constant attendance upon the Laird of Torphinn, old Michael Maitland Elliot. He was partly paralysed, and had no use of his limbs, and the lady you saw to-day was his only child. He took a fancy to me for a time, and as he needed a great deal of attendance, I

went often alone to Torphinn, and so, in course of time, I, seeing the sweetness of her heart, grew to love her, as any man must have done in my place. He was long ill, and the coming and going lasted more than a year. Then he died, and she went away from Torphinn for a long time, went out to Virginia to see some of her mother's people, who belonged to one of the old Southern families. And while she was there a marriage was arranged for her among them. I have heard since that it was all set down in the old Laird's will. Anyhow, she came back to Amphray with a husband, who, according to the terms of the will, had to take her name. He was a handsome, dashing fellow, but neither strong physically nor well behaved. He had the strong prejudices and the fiery, passionate temper of the South, coupled with their indolence and irresponsibility. He has been a poor Laird of Torphinn, and I believe has never been really happy or felt at home here. Soon after they came home he took an unreasoning dislike to me, and I was forbidden the house. They were often absent from the place for months; once they stayed in Virginia for two years.""Have they no children?""No; there was a child, but he died in infancy. Dr. Mercer has attended while they were at home. As I said, I have not set foot across the threshold for nineteen years until to-day.""It is a strange story. And he is very ill, you say?""He is sick unto death, and when a man comes near the portals of the Unseen, David, sometimes there is given to him a clearness of vision regarding the things of earth.""He sent for you, then?""Yes; and he had much to say. I have misjudged him, David, but how or why I cannot tell you. I left his bedside feeling myself a poor, miserable creature, whom God might have justly punished long ago." "I think you have been punished," I cried jealously." He has had her. You have been a lonely man all these years."He turned his head away, and I could not see his expression."My loneliness has been less than his, David. For he has never had her heart, and he has loved her well."Then it was as if some shame suddenly came upon him for having spoken of things so hidden and sacred to a man's inmost heart, for he began hastily to talk of common things, in which neither of us could at the moment be interested. So we

came to the Whinstone Cottage, which was the beginning of the long, straggling Amphray street."I hardly know what I have been saying, lad," he said suddenly. "You have a beguiling way with you. But I think you are to be trusted.""I hope so," I answered somewhat lamely, but I daresay he saw my heart was full. He got down at the Whinstone Cottage as if he had taken a sudden thought, and saying he would ask for Miss Phemie, disappeared within the low doorway, and when he came out again he was bright, alert, purpose-like, and all the glamour of the past had disappeared.Before we parted that night he spoke once more about Torphinn."We'll leave by nine to-morrow morning, David, and we'll drive to Caitha before we go to Torphinn. I want to see Mercer and make things straight with him. Fortunately, they won't need much straightening; he has often said he was doing my work there.""All right," I answered; "I'll be ready at nine.""I won't be long, David; he is a dying man, as I said. He may last out the bright days, but the first snell blast will kill him. But I never saw a man take it more easily. There are some to

whom,like Job, the day of death is better than the day of birth."Is he so very unhappy?"He is a man who has had many disappointments, who has missed the best that life can give; that is the only way I can understand his attitude of mind." "It doesn't seem natural to him," I said bluntly, and the Doctor looked at me queerly."What do you mean, lad?""I don't know," I was obliged to answer, but I could not give any reason for the odd feeling of distrust which the Laird of Torphinn's sudden change of front had engendered in my soul. It was nothing to me; I was outside of the tragedy of these three lives, but I felt that the last pang was not yet. I felt impatient of the Doctor's large trust. I knew the guilelessness of his soul, his purity of purpose, how impossible it was for him to harbour an unworthy thought. And somehow I wished that he had been left to pursue the lonely tenor of his way, and that there had been no untimely raking up of the ashes of a dead past.THE PATRICK-FIDDES LOVE AFFAIRTHE PATRICK-FIDDES LOVE AFFAIRTHE parish church of Amphray stood on a green plateau half-way up one of the hills which rose like billows of the sea on every side of the village. It was a sober, substantial building, composed of the black whinstone of the district, but age had softened and mellowed it, and the green about it gave the tender touch it needed. At its best the whinstone is dark and cheerless, and when, as at Amphray, the whole village is built of it, the effect, especially in the dull days, is apt to be depressing. The manse was close by, so embowered among trees that only its gables were visible. One day a message was left for the Doctor to call at the manse, and he invited me to walk with him.I had seen the minister in the pulpit, and admired his stately presence no less than his dignified utterances. He looked like one to uphold the dignity of his calling, but who would dwell

apart from his people, not seeking to understand or to take part in their life. We seldom saw him about the parish. I remarked upon it that evening as we crossed the road below the Whinstone Cottage, and took a short cut across a meadow to a little wooden bridge which crossed the burn just below the manse garden."He is not in touch with the folk, David, and never has been; his misfortune, perhaps, rather than his fault. The Church life of Amphray has been a mockery of the name for twenty years.""But why?" I asked. "He has a kindly face, and he preaches well. And they turn out to hear him too. What is the trouble?""It is a long story, and there is no time to tell it now. When good men quarrel, lad, there is a bitterness deeper than the depths of the sea. He has had his own sorrows in his house, poor man; and no man need envy him. He came here a young man in his prime, with a bonnie wife, who in time bore him five children. She lies buried yonder with four of them beside her. He has but one left, and her hold on life is so frail that each day is a day of terror and fear for him, for I never saw a man so bound up in an earthly possession as he is in her.""I have not seen her in Amphray, surely?""Not yet; she has wintered in the South. From Christmas up to Easter she was in Cairo with a widowed sister of her mother, and since then she has been at Torquay. Her father told me last Sunday she was expected home this week."We stepped on the frail wooden bridge as he spoke, and presently descried the tall, fine figure of the minister on one of the garden terraces, evidently on the look-out. He waved his hand and came quickly down to meet us, and I could see how anxious was the expression on his face. He seemed disappointed, I thought, that the Doctor was not alone, and under pretext of admiring the view I walked away from him, and immediately they became absorbed in conversation. So engrossed were they that they stood still on the path, and I pursuing it, came to the terrace where we had first seen the minister. And there upon a garden seat I came suddenly on the minister's daughter. She was certainly the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. Her clear transparent skin,her sweet expression, her gentle eyes, seemed to single her out almost as a denison of some other sphere. But there was no strength of body mind; frailty was written upon her delicate face. She looked like some frail flower which the first breath adverse wind would wither and blight.

She did not seem surprised to see me, but gave me good evening frankly."I have heard about you from the Doctor. He wrote to me last week at Torquay, and, told me you had come.""I have been nearly three weeks here, Miss Fiddes, and the time of my departure has been fixed again and again. But I am really going to-morrow.""You will be sorry to leave the Doctor. Don't you think he is the best man in the world? I suppose he is here with you to-night. My father fancies I am only well under his care."They suddenly appeared at the end of the laurel walk, and the girl ran to meet them with every expression of pleasure. I was struck by the Doctor's expression as he bent his eyes on her face. There was more in it than mere professional inquiry, and I wondered what it meant."You are a hopeless case, Katie," he said. "All this money to be spent on you, and to be as troublesome as ever. What shall we do with you now, eh?""Leave me in peace," she answered saucily as she clasped her two hands on his arm. "But really Doctor dear, I am quite well. It is only papa

worrying. You should prescribe for him, and not for me."I saw the stern, proud features of the minister relax into an extraordinary tenderness as he watched her. Only to her could he thus unbend. She was his all, and I saw that his very heart clave to her.The Doctor walked round the garden with her, and the minister did his utmost to talk courteously to me. But I saw that I was in the way, and it was a relief when the Doctor came back presently and bade me go home, saying he would follow me soon. I called in at the Whinstone Cottage to bid Miss Allardyce goodbye and I had been a good time at home before he returned."I did not treat you with much ceremony, lad, but you saw how it was. They had something on their minds. Life is a queer thing, David. Again and again it is brought home to us how little hand we have in its ordering."She looks far from strong, and it is easy to see how he is bound up in her," I answered."That is so, but the thing he would have given his right hand to prevent has happened. She has met his enemy's son out in Egypt and learned to care for him, and what will be the upshot of it no man can tell.""What was the story?" I asked."It is not an uncommon one. Two men loved the same woman. The minister's wife was the daughter of a naval surgeon in Edinburgh, who had a small place here. One of the heritors, Patrick of Hangingshaw, wanted to marry her, and she preferred the minister. Patrick was a big, rough, swearing man, not canny when he was crossed, and he has borne the minister ill-will all his days; ay, though he afterwards married himself, he never laid aside his grudge, and has done his utmost to undermine the minister's influence in the place.""But if he was that kind of man I don't see what influence he could have on sensible folk.""You would wonder what an ill tongue can do in a place, lad, and how constant dropping can wear away a stone. And Patrick, on account of his position, has a certain following. He has been a thorn in Fiddes' side for six-and-twenty years.""And what about his son?"The Doctor smiled."It's queer, as I said, how things are lifted out of our hands. It may be that the young hands will help to heal the old sores, but it will be a tough battle first.""Does he-old Patrick-know?""Not yet; he is to be told on Monday, when young Patrick comes home. Then the tug-of-war will begin.""What does the minister say?""The minister will do anything, ay, even swallow his pride and go as a supplicant to Hangingshaw, if he can keep his bairn. It is certain if she is thwarted in this she will not live.""And old Patrick, will he give in?"The Doctor shook his head."No man can predict what he will or will not do, but I would say no. We can but wait and see.""And what do they want with you?""The man's heart is riven, lad, and I have been behind the scenes with him in his many sorrows, that's all. I could pray that the last and most bitter cup would be spared him. For though he is proud, he is a good man, David, and he has held his peace under severe provocation better than I could have done. Well, are you really for off the morn?""I must; it is not fair to them at home to stop any longer.""Well, I'll let you off on condition that you come back on Saturday night week to stop over

the Sunday; then you'll hear, maybe, the end of the Patrick-Fiddes love story."The evening passed quickly, and though we had not much to say to each other, there was a sense of nearness and kinship very precious, to me at least. Next morning I did not start out on the now familiar yet ever-varying round, and as I stood on the step watching the capable Bob tossing his glossy head in the morning sun I was conscious of a lump in my throat. The Doctor was hurried in his movement, and more abrupt than usual in his speech-sure signs of mental dispeace."I won't say goodbye, lad, for I'll be back before you go. I've got my hands full at Torphinn this day, and for many days to come. And you'll come back, on your oath, on Saturday week by four o'clock of the afternoon? If I don't see you here when I get back-well, there'll be ructions, that's all.""I'll be here," I answered bravely; and he jumped to his seat, waving his hand as he drove away. And though I knew it was his goodbye, he never once looked back.I gathered my things together with speed and prepared for my long tramp across the hills, and by tea-time I was at the Byres again, delighting

them with accounts of the three weeks which had passed like a flash, and were ever to be cherished as one of the rare periods of my life. For they never were repeated in the full sense. The next time I went back to make a long stay at Amphray the long loneliness had gone out of my kinsman's life for ever, and he had no need of me. It is so often in this life. We alight upon a treasure, hug it to our breast for awhile, and, lo, it is not, and we are left wondering why such things be. Speedily the interests of my own home claimed me, and I was as busy with the early harvest as any ploughman in the place. But on the Saturday week, according to promise, I set out to Amphray once more. This time I rode my grandfather's cob, for I had been in the harvest-field wielding a scythe since six o'clock, and had no mind for the hill tramp.I arrived on the stroke of four, and saw the face of my kinsman between the curtains of the dining-room window watching, as I thought, for my coming. And there is nothing so warms the heart of man as the sense that he is missed, and his coming welcomed as mine was that day."I had a job to get away, for the harvest is pressing," I said as I wrung his hand. "And my mother sends you her respects. She will only

forgive you if you will promise to come to the Byres and make your peace in person.""Faith, that would give me uncommon pleasure; but come in, lad, and Kirsty will bring up the soup. I put forward my dinner an hour, thinking you would be ready for it."Soon we were seated at the table as we had been the night of my first arrival, but what a difference! Then we were strangers, shy of one another; now these weeks of close intimacy had knit us together in no common bond."I'm as busy as ever, lad, at the two extremes of the parish. My time is spent between Torphinn and Hangingshaw, with a visit to Katie Fiddes in between.""How are they all, and who is ill at Hangingshaw?""Old Patrick, down with a fell attack of gout that does not improve or soften his outlook or things in general. The Laird of Torphinn is in extremis. He will not live through the night. I have to go up there this evening; we'll drive together.""And what about what you call the Patrick Fiddes love affair?""Oh, it's hanging fire. Young Patrick wrote his father, and there was a terrible explosion, and

he swears he never will give in, but whiles I have my doubts. I'm very anxious about the lassie, not liking her looks. Something will have to be done, and that speedily. Her father sees it Only to-day he said he would go to Hangingshaw and speak for the young pair. I advised him to wait till Monday, when the gout would be a little less cruel.""What a diplomat you are!" I cried. "You manage them all, as well as heal them."He shook his head."It's very little I can do for them, lad. Whiles even I misdoubt the little knowledge I possess. Were we not in the hands of a merciful God it would go hard with us all, lad."Within the hour we set out together to drive up the peaceful valley to the heights of Torphinn. There was little change in the prospect, some deepening of the purple on the heather, a yellower glow on the sparse patches of ripening corn, later here than in our own dale; a russet tinge on hedge and tree heralding the fall of the year. As we began to climb the little brae by the Whinstone Cottage full in the glow of the sunset, the Doctor suddenly shaded his eye with his hand."David, as I'm a living man that's the Hang-

ingshaw carriage at the manse gate. I can't be mistaken."He seemed much excited, and made me drive close by it, so that he could have speech with the coachman."Who's down from Hangingshaw, Leadbetter?Never the Laird that I left in his bed this morning?"Over the man's stolid countenance spread a big, slow smile."Yes, sir, I've been stannin' here a guid twa hoors."An expression of lively satisfaction crossed the Doctor's face; he nodded, and we drove on."The advance has come from his side, and that's well, for the minister never did him any ill, but I wonder how it was done. This morning I thought him wavering, but the line about his mouth was as dour as ever."We were not long in covering the distance to Torphinn, nor long detained there. I waited in the gig at the door, and saw no sign of the lady whom I remembered reverently as one who had borne many sorrows nobly. The Doctor was grave when he came out, but save telling me that the Laird could not last the night, he said nothing about his visit, and it seemed to me that I must

have dreamed the events of that other day when he unveiled his heart to me and showed me the loneliness of a lifetime. His face did not lighten till we came to the manse gate, where he bade me stop."I won't keep you, David, but I must be at the bottom of this. I'm as curious as an auld wife about these bairns and their love affairs. But I've known them all my days."He left me at the door a good half-hour, and when he came out again his face was beaming."It's all right, lad, and there'll be one more happy ending to make up for some of the sad ones. It seems Patrick had another letter from young Pat to-day that clinched the business, and down he came to see Katie and speak his mind.""And have they made it up?""Yes; the quarrel of a lifetime has been patched up to-day, and the minister's a happier man, ay, and a better one, than he has been for five-and-twenty years. It seems that young Pat was expected home for a three months' furlough this autumn, and that he wrote he would not come except on the understanding that he should be allowed to come and go to Amphray Manse as he pleased. His father, I suppose, couldn't stand the idea of not seeing him after a two years' absence,

and he came down with no very clear idea of what he was going to say or do at the manse, except that he wanted to relieve his mind.""Did he see Miss Fiddes?""Ay, did he. It was the bairn's pleading eyes that did it, and gruff old sinner that he is, she got the better of him entirely. So young Pat will be home next week, and after that my occupation will be gone."It happened just as he predicted. During the next days the Hangingshaw carriage was often on the manse brae, and one day it came and bore away the minister and his daughter up the long ascent to the mansion house among the hills. And before the year was out there was a grand wedding in the old church, and young Patrick took his bride away to finish her cure under the blue skies of the land of the Sphinx. It was a pretty love story, and the Doctor was as pleased over it as any school-girl. The stress of his own inner life was then heavy upon him, and perhaps made him more tender than he might otherwise have been.I will deal with that strange and pathetic story another day.A LATE ROMANCEA LATE ROMANCEON Sunday evening late, as we sat talking by the fire, which a dreary day of rain, driven before a snell east wind, made most acceptable, an urgent message came from Torphinn. The Doctor went out himself to interview the messenger, and when he returned his face was grave."It is the last signs, David, and there is nothing I can do. But for his wife's sake I must go up without delay. Will you drive me? If you think the fire better company on such a night I couldn't blame you.""I'll come, of course, and glad to get the chance. And you'll take the hooded gig?""Yes, you've given me a new fancy for it. I've driven little else since you went away."It was very dark as we drove up the wild glen, but the surefooted Bob stumbled not at all. In the last weeks he had made close acquaintance with the long road to Torphinn. In the avenue, where

the dripping trees met closely overhead, I imagine the darkness could be felt. It was brightened presently by the flickering lights of the great house, where it stood solitary among the ghostly shadows. The Doctor passed in at once, and before he had disappeared a man from the stables came to take away the gig, and once more I was shown into the library. Evidently they expected and desired the Doctor to remain some time. I was in no way loth to be left among the treasures my soul loved, and an hour passed as it had been a minute. I could hear no sound through the 'thick book-lined walls. Whether it fared well or ill with the master of the house I knew not, nor indeed could greatly care. To me he was little more than a shadow, and from all I could hear had taken small pains in his lifetime to win that regard which makes a great man lamented when he dies. I was deep in one of John Gait's Ayrshire records, a first edition, with the author's notes complete, when the door opened suddenly."The Doctor waits, sir," said the butler's voice, and I imagined a tremor in it.I sprang to my feet, and regarded him with a quick inquiry."How is Mr. Maitland Elliot?"The man shook his head."He is dead, sir," he answered in a solemn voice fitting to the occasion, but without any ring of personal regret. I followed him out to the hall without a word. There the Doctor was drawing on his gloves, and when he saw me come he immediately passed out. The gig was at the door; we sprang to our seats, and the willing Bob trotted smartly off towards the darksome shadow of the trees."He's gone, David, gone to his account. It was a queer death-bed. Yon is not how I would like to slip away. It was a grim fight with Fate to the last, as it must be for the man who has made this life his all.""His wife?" I said hesitatingly. "How does she bear it?""As such women bear everything, in heroic silence, doing her duty up to the last," he answered, and his voice was far away, as of one whose thoughts were too deep for utterence. He changed the theme when we reached the turnpike, and he seemed to me fearful lest I should return to it. But I had no temptation thereto. I had come to some understanding of his nature: I knew when to speak and when to keep silence. It was midnight when we drove through the sleeping Amphray street; a light twinkled here and there, telling of

some vigil by a sick-bed or some late student poring over a book beloved."You will not go to-morrow, David; a day more or less makes no difference in holiday time, and I need you here," he said briefly as we shut the stable door after seeing Bob made comfortable for the night."I promised to get back to-morrow, and they are short-handed for the harvest.""Much good you'd be at it," he paid tranquilly. "If you'll stop as I bid you, I'll take you home myself at the end of the week and beg their pardon. I'll wire to your mother in the morning."I was in his hands as clay to the potter for the love I bore him.For the next few days he seemed unlike himself.He was very silent, yet pursued by a strange restlessness, and he did not mention Torphinn or the name of Maitland Elliot until the day that the Laird was to be buried."I am in two minds whether to go to this funeral or not, David. For the man himself I had little respect in life, and it would make no difference to her.""It is usual for the medical attendant to go, isn't it?""When he has finished his job, eh?" he said,

with a touch of grim humour. "All right, we can follow in the brougham as far as the gate of Caitha kirkyard, where he is to be buried. Torphinn is not in our parish, lad; that's why Amphray knows so little about them, and why our worthy Mr. Fiddes has not been asked to take part at the grave."It was a grey, quiet afternoon as we drove out from the cross-roads to Caitha kirkyard. There was an immense gathering, of course, the burying of a laird being an event of no small consequence in these latitudes, which called for a cessation from the ordinary affairs of life. At the kirkyard gate the throng was very dense, and after pondering a moment the Doctor decided that we should leave the carriage and join the mourners' train. As we did so he recognised a grey-haired, alert, keen-looking man, whom he addressed as Mr. Haldane, and asked him how he was."All right, thank you, Doctor," he said. Then, laying a hand on his arm, he drew him aside and engaged him in rapid, earnest conversation. I saw my kinsman's face flush and then grow pale, and his mouth set in its sternest curve. Suddenly he beckoned to me. "We'll go no further, David. Find Tom Aitken, and tell him we'll go back at once."Then he fell to speech again with the grey-haired gentleman, while I, somewhat bewildered, went to bring up the carriage. In less than five minutes we were bowling rapidly away from Caitha Kirk."Hate between man and man is a queer thing," said the Doctor at last. "It has pursued me to the end of my life as well as his."I could only ask him what he meant. He did not answer for some time, but suddenly he turned upon me with fierceness, like one who is overcome by thoughts he cannot crush down."You'll remember what I told you when you were here before. He has tried to take his revenge. He has made sure that even the poor remnant of happiness which might be ours can never be now. That was Haldane, his own lawyer from Edinburgh, come out to the reading of the will. He tells me that while he had not it in his power to take Torphinn from her, because it has never has been his, he has left a will which will humiliate and shame her who never did him an ill turn, but has been sweetness to him all the days they have spent together."He paused then, and it was a full minute before he spoke again."All his own money, which has gone hitherto

to the upkeep of the place, will only be hers on condition that she does not marry again.""It is a common occurrence," I could not help saying, but he interrupted me impatiently."Common enough, in the bare fact, and if he had left it so nobody would have minded. But he has named me by name David. If she marries me she is to forfeit everything. Think of the humiliation she will endure this day. I have begged Haldane to tell her beforehand, so that she may have the option of absenting herself from the room while the will is being made public."What relatives are there?""Oh, a hungry crowd from the ends of the earth, and there are among them those that will rejoice over her pain, and chuckle because her proud head is brought low. Can you conceive such malignancy on the part of a man who knew he would soon be done with the things of time?"He spoke with the full passion of a man deeply stirred. As for me, I said nothing, having no words fitting to the theme. A moment more, and I saw that he had forgotten me. The whole story was not mine, yet I could piece together bit by bit and arrive at a fair conclusion regarding it. And from the look on my kinsman's face I gathered what the end would be.There was work waiting for the Doctor in the village when we got home, and I saw him no more till the hour of dinner had come and gone, and the faithful housekeeper was wrought up to the usual state of wrath over a good meal spoiled. It was nearer eight than seven when I heard his foot on the step, and when he came in I saw that his face had cleared, that once more work had wrought its redemption in a man's soul. He spoke cheerfully as we sat down to the table, uplifted by the thought that he had helped to bring another poor soul back from the brink of the grave. We were at our coffee, and the pipes were lit, when the bell sent its echoes through the house. The wind had freshened with the night, and was making a good deal of noise in the chimney, so that we had not heard any wheels outside. Scarce a moment passed between the ringing of the bell and the swift opening of our sitting-room door. The tall figure of a woman stood there, and I think I see her yet, the sweeping folds of her black gown falling straightly from her splendid figure; her cheeks aflame, her eyes bright with excitement, her nervous hands clasped before her. It was the widow of the man we had that day buried, and it needed no specially observant eye to discern that she laboured under some tremendous strain. She came forward, taking no heed of me, 

and there was a pathetic, piteous look on her beautiful face."Oh, Walter!" she cried, "what have they done among them? They have made me a shame and a world's wonder who have never done them ill. I am come to you, where I shall be safe."I rose to my feet, making haste to depart from this strange scene in which I had no part. I could not but look at my kinsman's face as these strong words of appeal fell upon his astonished ears. Its tenderness was such as a father might have shown towards the child of his love; but the gleam of a strong man's passion was in his eyes. He took the poor trembling hands of the woman he had so long loved in his strong, tender clasp, and I closed the door upon them and slipped away. The tragedy of a lifetime was shut in with them there, the veil was rent; the time had come for plain speech which could never be misunderstood. I took my cap and wandered forth into the quiet street. Their shadows were on the blind as I passed the window, and I saw that she was seated, and that he stood near. And so I left them, wondering what would be the issue of that momentous hour. A fine rain was being driven by the wind gusts; it fell freshly on my face, and the air had the mildness of the late summer in its touch. Scarce

knowing whither I went, I found myself presently at the gate of the Whinstone Cottage. Miss Phemie's light shot a cheerful glow across the gravelled path of the little garden, and invited me to enter. I passed up the garden and tapped lightly at the door. She came to open it herself, holding the candle high and shading it with her hand, a look of anxiety on her placid face. A sudden gust extinguished the candle before she saw my face, and I spoke hastily to reassure her."Come in; I am so very glad to see you. I thought you had gone away," she said quickly. "There is nothing wrong, I hope, that you come so late. The dear Doctor is quite well?""Oh yes, quite; and it is not very late, you know, Miss Phemie, only half-past eight," I said lightly, and closing the door, stepped into the comforting brightness of her little living room. She sat down there, the picture of serene content; already the lines of care and pain were being smoothed away from her face. And there I sat a good hour, but I have no recording memory of what was said. I fear I sadly puzzled the old lady by my absent manner, for once or twice she looked at me oddly."There is something the matter, I think," she said at last. "Twice you have answered me

wrongly, and sometimes you do not listen at all." There was something like a twinkle in her pleasant eye, which assured me that she was in no way hurt or offended."Yes, there is something the matter, Miss Phemie. But it does not concern me, and I am not at liberty to tell you. And it is very good of you to let me sit here and be rude to you, as I have been, without a word of rebuke. One day I will explain.""Oh, I am not one who needs explanations. I think I rather dread them. Let me tell you something. I have an invitation to go to Edinburgh for the winter, to stay with an old school friend and her brother who have come home from the East. And I am so happy not to be forgotten that I think I will go for a month or two at least.""Then I shall see you, and come and take you out for walks on Sunday," I said boldly, whereat her sweet, low laugh rang out like a bell."You will spoil the old woman among you, but perhaps I will hold you to your word," she said as I got up to go.Ten o'clock was ringing from the parish church tower as I opened the door of the Doctor's house. I was not surprised that the light had gone from the window, or to hear that he had gone to

Torphinn, driving with Mrs. Maitland Elliot in her carriage. I saw that the good Kirsteen suspected nothing, but regarded it as a very ordinary episode in her master's life. She feared no usurper of her territory. She believed the Doctor would go down wifeless and childless to his grave.I pondered in my mind whether I should wait up for him or go to bed. Reflecting that probably he would be in no mood for speech with me after the strain of the last hours, and, further, that if he wished to see me he had but to step up to my room, I took my candle and went upstairs. About midnight the clatter of hoofs on the stony street proclaimed his return. He was about ten minutes in the stable, and to my amazement I heard him come whistling to the doorstep. I waited, heard him lock up and slowly ascend the stairs."Sleeping, David?" he called outside my door."No, sir. I would have waited up, only I was not sure."He opened the door, set down the hand-lamp he carried on the dressing-table and came to my bedside.I sat up and I suppose I must have looked the eager questioning I dared not utter."What are you glowering at, lad?" he asked, with a smile; and I noticed his young boyish

look. It was as if twenty years had been suddenly taken from his life."There'll be great changes, David, in my life soon--changes which I had never hoped for. I daresay you can guess.""She will be your wife?" I said quickly.He nodded gravely."Within the next two months. He thought to part us by his wicked jealousy and hatred. He has only hastened that which he would have given another ten years of life to prevent.""I am glad," was all I said."She gives up all for me, even the place of her birth. What have I to give her?--the last years of my lonely life, a plain, quiet home. That is all.""Yourself," I made answer. "And with her I would say it was enough."I spoke as I thought, for his strong, noble face, with its hidden tenderness, stirred me mightily."Were I ten times better than I am, I would still fall far short of what I ought to be to win her. It will make a great talk in the place, David, and the busybodies will have their hands full. For the first time in his life the Doctor has given them a chance to talk of his affairs."They'll take full advantage of it. Two months, did you say?""In two months' time I'll take the first holiday of my life, David, and spend it with her far from this place. I hope I shall be able to keep my sober judgment between now and then, and to do nothing unbecoming my years.""Years!" I cried, with a gay laugh. "You don't look a day more than thirty now, and you'll never get any older; that's my firm belief.""I would I were thirty for her sake. Good-night, lad. This will make no difference. Your welcome to Amphray will never be lacking. She'll tell you that herself when the right moment comes."No difference! So he said, but I was conscious of a foolish jealous pang as he closed the door and went, whistling softly, along the passage to his own room. Such was the Doctor's romance. So he provided a rich and full feast for the Amphray gossip-lovers, and so Torphinn. passed from the direct line of the Elliots, and the last daughter of the race chose betwixt love and great estate. Did she regret it? Never once, but daily thanked God for her happy lot, for the love of a true man, one of the best God ever made. Nor was the crowning joy of life denied them. In fulness of time the sunshine of a baby's smile swept away for ever the cruel shadows of the intervening years.WHAT MADE PETER CALDWELLWHAT MADE PETER CALDWELLPETER CALDWELL was the son of a small shoemaker, who from time immemorial had mended and made the footgear of the thrifty in Faulds. He dwelt in a little cottage on the brae between Faulds and the big gates of Inneshall, and was one of the old characters who help to give form and colour to village life. Like most of his craft, he was a bit of a scholar, and a philosopher, and they said in Faulds that what Peter did not know about life was not worth anybody's while to learn. Peter had one child, a son of whom he was inordinately proud. His name was Peter also, for there was great conservatism in the way of names in Faulds, and the person who deliberately went outside the family records to find a name for his or her child was regarded as one who had little respect for the decencies of life. There had always been a Peter Caldwell in the parish, a maker and mender of shoes: the grey stones of

the churchyard, as well as the parish register, triumphantly proved it. It was Peter himself who broke the record by deciding that his one son should become a minister. For the sake of distinction the prefix "wee" was added to Peter junior's name, though I cannot remember any time outside of his mother's arms when he could be called wee. He was a big, overgrown booby from his youth up. If there was a boy mortally and heartily despised at Adam Fairweather's, it was Wee Peter, and none of us expected him to come to any good. When we heard he was destined to become a minister--for indeed he made no secret of his father's intention, bragging of it as if it were something very fine, and utterly unattainable by the rest of us--we laughed in his face. Part of our fun was to portray, with much embroidery, Peter's probable first appearance in any pulpit. He was a big, awkward-looking boy, with a soft, pale, freckled face, which earned for him the soubriquet of Bap-face; indeed, he was called that chiefly, if not exclusively, by his compeers at the school.He was fairly good at his lessons, and being hard kept at them by his father at home, made good progress and won many prizes. But he never took part in the inner life of the school,

which makes its memory stand out in the minds and hearts of some who will never see it more. He never could stand a licking, and would sneak out of it with small credit to himself at any time. Nor did he care for the ploys which made a certain section of us a terror to Faulds, though there was a sneaking fondness for us and a pride in our deeds of daring even among those who were loudest in our condemnation as a parcel of ill-skinned rascals. Peter, however, was never one of our number. He was too much afraid of the tawse and other methods whereby Adam Fairweather showed his appreciation of the complaints made of us at the school.Nevertheless, Peter grew and flourished, and in fulness of time went to Edinburgh University for the purpose of taking his M.A. degree. I used to see him there, but beyond a nod or an occasional word in passing, had little knowledge of him. Yet it came to pass that I got mixed up in his intimate affairs in a way which I had not expected at the time and did not like. It came about in this wise. One day I was sauntering leisurely down the North Bridge at Edinburgh with a book under my arm, when somebody nudged me, and I beheld the colourless face of Wee Peter at my elbow."Hulloa," I said, and I am sure my tone could

not be cordial.  Peter had a familiar manner which was always particularly offensive to me. He was the sort of person who would call you by your Christian name five minutes after he was introduced to you."Hulloa, Davie," he said, with a nod, "where are you bound for, eh?""That's my business," I said, with some dryness; and when he essayed to put his arm through mine, I drew back."Want to choke me off, eh, Davie? What have I done to offend you? We used to be pals enough.""When?" I asked brusquely."Now, that's what I call shabby," he said in a complaining voice. "And any way I don't want a favour off you, only a bit of advice."This surprised me a good deal, though I had heard of Wee Peter's little peccadilloes at college, of his penchant for borrowing small sums of money from his acquaintances, and straightway forgetting to pay them back. His father kept him very tight in money matters, allowing only the barest sum necessary to pay for his board and lodging, and no margin whatsoever. And that was not to be wondered at, for the shoemaker was not in the habit of handling big sums of money,

and had a keen, if not exaggerated, appreciation of every penny's value."Advice is very cheap, and seldom worth taking," I answered, more mollified. "Well, what is it about?""Where are you going just now?" he asked."Home.""Well, don't; let's walk back and through Rankeillour Street to the Queen's Park."I was not much in love with the prospect, but not having anything very pressing to do at the moment, I turned as he bade me.To my surprise, Peter strode along by my side in silence. Usually voluble in the extreme, his silence seemed to indicate that the matter troubling him was serious. At last he spoke."My landlady died yesterday morning, Davie," he said suddenly."I'm sorry if she was a particular friend of yours," I answered. "But you'll easy find another one.""That's not what's worrying me; I wish it was," he went on. "She had a daughter.""And you've got engaged to her, and promised to take her to the manse by and by," I said, easily filling up a by no means uncommon story."Well, not exactly, but I suppose it'll come to

that, sooner or later; in fact, I don't see how I'm to get out of doing it now."I turned and looked at him in sheer amazement. He was only two-and-twenty, and looked the raw, unformed lad he was."You can't," I said firmly. "You're as good or as bad as an infant. You haven't a penny to your name, and your father's hair would stand on end at the bare suggestion.""Oh, I know it, but you see I've had money at odd times from Mrs. Drysdale. She guessed I'd make it up to Bessie, I think, and there we are.""What sort of a girl is Bessie?""As good as gold, but she isn't a beauty, Davie; even her best friend can't say that.""Then you've had money from Bessie too?""Yes, she has a little of her own. She has bought me books. You know it's not possible to do without books, Davie, and I thought the time would soon come when I could pay it back.""It never does come for debts like that. But why do you say you ought to marry her now?""Well, she has no relations, and nowhere to go, and practically nothing to live upon.""But neither have you, and double harness is twice as expensive as single. It would be madness,

nothing short of it," I said, speaking with as much firmness as I could muster. All the time there was a feeling of something in the background, and I saw that Wee Peter's lips were working as if he were exceedingly nervous, or labouring under some strong emotion. This was so unusual in him, whom I had always regarded as the personification of stolidity that I gave him another keen glance. But he did not say anything until we had passed through the narrow streets which separated us from the fine open spaces of the Park. It was a beautiful clear winter day, and the grand buttresses of Salisbury Crags stood out sharp and wonderful against the crystal blueness of the sky."Let's climb up to the Radical Road," he said, and it seemed to me that he set his teeth. As we mounted the north wind began to play about us, and we heard its sough in the weird crannies of the hill, and watched it ripple the smooth surface of the loch at Duddingston.When we were right at the summit, and stood still a moment to draw a long breath, the city was all about our feet in fairy outline, and in the far distance the sea shimmered under the beams of the wintry sun."It's better up here, Davie; there's room," said Wee Peter, taking another deep, long breath.

"Well, maybe you've guessed I'm married already."I could not speak for a full minute."I didn't think it was as bad," I answered at last. "Well, what's to be done?""God knows," said Wee Peter. "I felt I must tell somebody, or it would finish me. What is to be done?""Let's stop here a bit and hammer it out," I said, and my heart stirred in pity for him. I had never greatly liked him, but it dawned upon me that there might be depths in Wee Peter's nature nobody had probed.We found a little cranny in the sharp rock, and wedged ourselves tightly into it, so that we were sheltered from every breath of the cold wind."The thing I ought to do, of course, is to tell my father," said Wee Peter at last. "Can you picture him? He'll put me to the door, likely.""I shouldn't be surprised, but you'll need to tell him, all the same, and I wouldn't wait a day if I were you.""I'm not going to; I'll tell him on Friday night when I go out. But it's after that, when I'm kicked out, you know--that's what's worrying me.""You'll need to give up college and work at something else," I hazarded."I could do that, of course, and will for a time, but I mean to be a minister some day, Davie, in spite of them."I stood silent for another full minute. The new quality of manliness in Wee Peter surprised me immensely, and a slow respect for him began to gather in my mind."But the first thing, of course, is to provide for your wife," I suggested."Of course. She has the house on till May, and the rent is paid. If we could get a lodger or two after everything is by, we might manage. And, of course, in the summer I could work at anything--the harvest, if everything else fails.""Certainly," I cried cheerfully. "You'd always get a job at the Byres, I know. I shouldn't wonder, Peter, if it turned out better than you expect. Then you're going out to Faulds to-morrow?"Peter nodded, but his face looked grey in the clear light, and the cloud upon it was long of lifting. I saw that he had no hope that his father would look leniently on his folly, and he was right.I did not go home that week-end, but waited with considerable anxiety for news from Peter Caldwell. He brought it himself to my lodgings

in Lauriston Place about ten o'clock on Saturday morning. I was just at my breakfast, having sat into the small hours, grinding for an examination in which I was more than usually anxious to do well."Well, it's all up with you. I see it in your face."Peter nodded, and sat down in silence. I saw that the thing was sore upon him."You'll just need to put your best foot foremost now. Was he very angry?""He was past speaking, and that's the truth; he'll never forgive me as long as he lives.""Never's a long word. What did your mother say?"To my surprise, I saw two tears tremble in Wee Peter's usually unexpressive blue eyes."She crept out after me greeting, Davie, and said it would never make any difference to her. Lord, what have I done, to wring two women's hearts like that? Why doesn't somebody teach us to be more careful and less selfish?"I did not seek to break the bruised reed, and I was both touched and amazed by the depth of feeling he displayed."So you're on your own hook entirely now," I said cheerfully. "Master of your fate, eh ? What

we've got to do is to make the best of things. I'll come and lodge with you, if Mrs. Caldwell will have me; that's what good books call practical sympathy, isn't it?""Will you, Davie?" A ray of brightness lifted the gloom of his face. "But it's not a great place though as clean as hands can make it.""It'll be an improvement on this, or it'll be pretty bad," I said, looking around with a grimace. "I was only enduring till Easter, because I hate changes. But the household cat has been more than usually depredatory lately. Last week she ate three-quarters of a pound of Byres' butter, and is none the worse for it.""We haven't a cat," said Wee Peter, but his voice was unsteady. "Well, will you come out this evening and see Bessie?"I agreed, and about seven o'clock that evening knocked at the door of the flat in the Causeway-side. It was a somewhat noisy neighbourhood, but the little house itself was a picture of cleanliness and modest comfort, and though Peter was right in saying his wife was no beauty, she was a pleasant, capable-looking person, who I felt sure would put some real grit into Peter. She seemed honestly devoted to him, and though it puzzled me to imagine how two such matter-of-fact and

quite unromantic persons had ever been guilty of such indiscretion, I could not help telling Peter that things might have been much worse, and that, after all, his marriage might be the making of him. And it was, in the best sense; from that hour he seemed to realise the responsibility he had taken upon himself, and he developed extraordinary resource in the way of earning odd money in the intervals of university study. She was determined that, whatever happened, the university career should not be given up, and though it suffered a good deal of interruption, and was unduly lengthened, Peter did in the end get his degree and passed with honours.All the intervening years Peter Caldwell, the shoemaker, had preserved a stony silence regarding his son, nor had he ever set eyes on his wife. He had sworn a great oath, that from the day when Peter confessed his folly he ceased to be a son of his, and the dour pride of his race forbade him going back on his word. But I believe that in his secret heart he often regretted it. He was reconciled to his son in this wise. My Aunt Robina, with a heart always soft towards the young and foolish, and, moreover, respecting the real grit of the young couple who had done their utmost to justify their folly, and had proved them-

selves able to fight their own battle, had invited Wee Peter's wife and little girl to spend a long holiday at the Byres, while Peter himself was absent taking a mission station in the far north. Now, Aunt Robina, always a plotter to make people happy and to smooth as many tangles out of life as she could, had set her heart on getting young Mrs. Caldwell and the wee Nannie, called after Peter's mother, installed in the cottage on the brae before Peter returned from the north. I was in her confidence, of course, and often we talked about it, but all our planning came to naught, as it often does, and the bairn herself solved the situation, and stormed the citadel in a moment of time, and without any planning whatsoever.One day my aunt was driving her guests herself in her little donkey-cart, and she stopped at the shoemaker's door with a parcel of boots for mending. It was a lovely summer day, and Peter Caldwell's roses, for which he had taken many a prize at the flower shows in the countryside, were in their full beauty."You watch Bob, Mrs. Caldwell," said my aunt giving the reins into the young mother's hands. "Nannie will come with me."So they went together up the path. The shoemaker was working on the bench by the door, and

my aunt said that his face looked very sad as he bent over his last. He rose up to meet her, and while they talked of the bit of the work she had brought, the bairn proceeded to roam about the garden and help herself liberally to the flowers. She was an extraordinarily winsome bairn to have such plain parents, and everybody at the Byres adored her."Wha's wee lass is she, Miss Robina? a denty wee quean," observed the shoemaker, who was fond of children, and had never ceased to mourn the death of Peter's little sister, who had died in infancy."She's a wee lass from Edinburgh, by name Nannie Caldwell," said Aunt Robina. "Nannie, come here."The shoemaker gave the tassel of his red cap a pull, and shifted his horn glasses higher on his nose."Nannie Caldwell," he repeated. "The mistress maun see her. It's no sic a common name.""She's no a common bairn," said Aunt Robina, firmly. "Nannie, come here and shake hands with your grandfather."Aunt Robina said that the sweat-drops then and there rose on the shoemaker's brow, and that he began to tremble greatly."It canna be, Miss Robina; ye are havering," he said unsteadily. "Peter wad hae sent us word.""It's true, Mr. Caldwell, and her mother, Peter's wife, is in the cart at the gate. Mrs. Caldwell would like to see her too, I daresay, so I'll leave them while I do my messages in the village."And the wily plotter, without giving him a moment to protest or refuse, hastened to the gate and bade Peter's wife take care of Nannie in the garden. Then she got into the cart and made Bob trot off at what was to him break-neck speed. That very day she lost her guests, and Nannie and her mother slept at the cottage on the brae.Thither also came Wee Peter at the conclusion of his mission in the north. Then there was a great Sunday, long remembered in Faulds, when Wee Peter, the despised and disliked, preached a sermon from the pulpit of the parish kirk which stirred the whole parish mightily.I wonder which felt the greater pride, the bent old man with the knotted fingers and the heart the child had softened, or the little, plain, quiet woman with the glow on her kind, true face, who had helped to uplift a commonplace life to the highest height of endeavour and achievement. I know which we honoured most. The folly of youth, which so often leaves only heartbreak and

the sting of unavailing regret behind, was, in the end, the making of Peter Caldwell He would be the first to admit the truth, but I have seen much misery result from such folly. It is because the opposite is so rare that I have thought it worth setting down."NOBLESSE OBLIGE""NOBLESSE OBLIGE"I WILL tell you a true story of that old motto, how it was once in danger of utter failure in a young life I knew, and how in the end it triumphed and lifted that life from the mire.On the high-road between Faulds village and the gates of Inneshall there was a plain, uninteresting two-storey house standing a little back from the road, with a lawn in front and a row of poplar-trees against the railing which gave it a certain privacy as well as its name. In The Poplars for many years abode a retired naval captain and his wife named Dunbar, distantly related to the Inneses. But there were few comings and goings between the two houses. Captain Dunbar was a very fiery old gentleman, and he had once spoken words to the old Laird of Inneshall concerning his mode of life which had never been forgiven; at least so the story ran. Captain Dunbar was one of the figures of my

boyhood. He was an extraordinarily tall man, and correspondingly broad. He had a somewhat stern, forbidding face, yet I have seen a twinkle in his eyes when he would watch the village lads at their play, or come suddenly upon the hounds and hares, as we ran breathless by his gate-a twinkle which seemed to indicate that he had a boy's heart beneath. He wore at most times the true service air, a sort of jaunty aloofness, which seemed to say that being a servant of the Queen he was master of everybody else. He had a gruff manner and an extraordinarily loud voice, which could strike terror to the heart of the genus boy. Even the most de'il-may-care among us feared the Captain, and kept discreetly out of his way. This was not always easy, because in all weathers he lived in the open, and was to be met with in all sorts of odd corners. His interest in village affairs was insatiable, and he loved gossip like any village dame. But he did not listen to scandal or uncharitable talk about his neighbours, and was not afraid to rebuke those who would take away a neighbour's character with a chance word or a shake of the head. He was intimate with Adam Fairweather, and they had a tryst to play cribbage together every Sunday evening, from eight to ten, alternately at one 

another's houses. After Adam retired from school life and went to live in the cottage on the brae, which his son's thoughtful care had provided for him, I have heard that they played a game every night in the week except Sunday.Captain Dunbar's wife was a small, sweet, unobtrusive person, whose heart safely trusted in her big, burly husband, of whom she did not stand in the slightest awe. Indeed, to hear her flatly contradict him in the midst of his loud-voiced laying down of the law was as good as any play.He was very fond of her, and proud of the dainty prettiness which she had managed to retain through a long and somewhat chequered life. Captain Dunbar had been much on foreign service, and had suffered many changes in his career, chiefly owing to his very fiery temper, which made him quarrel with people on the slightest provocation. But he was a good officer, and had initiative, which had won him a certain distinction. To this couple had been born one son, who died of fever at Malta at the very beginning of his career. His wife did not long survive him, and they left to the old couple at Faulds their boy Harry in his tenth year. He came very little to Faulds, however. His mother's people had him educated in England,

and when the time came he entered the Naval College at Eltham to prepare for his father's profession.Then the relative who had so far been responsible for his upbringing died, and his home in holiday times was transferred to Faulds.The Captain's pride in that gallant boy was a wonderful and touching thing; it is certain he loved him far better than he had ever loved his own son, or at least he showed it more.I knew him slightly, as one might know a resident of the same parish, but we were never intimate. Our way of life lay in different grooves. Yet it came to pass that I was mixed up in a part of Harry Dunbar's career which he lived to remember with regret  It came about in this wise. It was after we had gone to London, one day at my house in Highgate I received a letter from Harry Dunbar asking if I could put him up for a few days. Now, the request surprised me not a little, for, as I have said, we were not on terms of sufficient intimacy to justify it. And though his grandfather and mine had had many a good talk together, the Captain often walking as far as the Byres of an afternoon, and even dropping in there for rest or a cup of tea, I knew very well that he did not consider us his social equals. The letter 

was written from an obscure hotel in the city, and was curiously worded. I passed it on to my wife without remark. She knit her white brows over it, evidently as puzzled as I was."Queer, isn't it?" I asked."Very; but I think he must come, and we'll see what it means. He says he sails next week for the Pacific Coast to join a service boat. Why isn't he at home till then? and why, I wonder, does he want to come here?""Well, he says he'll explain when he comes, so we'll let him come," I answered; "that is if you don't mind, and are not too tired to take the trouble.""I won't trouble about Harry Dunbar, I assure you, David; and I think we ought to have him for-well, for the sake of home, and in case he may have gone a little off the straight.""Looks like it," I grunted, and went off to my business, where I forgot all about Harry Dunbar. When I arrived home in the late afternoon an unfamiliar hat and a shabby portmanteau met my gaze in the hall, and I knew that our guest had arrived. I went upstairs and found him there with my wife. He stood up as I entered, and as I held out my hand I looked him very straightly in the face.He was a tall, slim, well set-up young fellow with a clear-cut, good-looking face, and a frank blue eye. But I thought his eye less frank that day than usual."I've just been saying to Mrs. Lyall how kind it is of you to have me. You see, it's like this: my steamer doesn't sail for five days and-well, the fact is, I haven't enough of the needful to carry me through.""It's all right; sit down, Mr. Dunbar, I said and Euphan told me afterwards that my tone was exceedingly dry. I thought his explanation a lame one, and it was on the tip of my tongue to ask why he didn't apply to his grandfather; but I restrained myself, and waited for the development of events. He was a very pleasant guest. His happy laugh had a winning and infectious sound about it, and I saw that Euphan was very favourably disposed towards him. Our first evening passed off without a hitch, and I enjoyed our talk of Faulds and the old days. I said nothing to my wife of my suspicions regarding the young man, being somewhat curious to see whether she would develop any herself.He left the house after breakfast next morning saying he had some business to do and some calls to pay in the afternoon, so that we needn't expect

him back till tea time. He wired, however, in the course of the day to say he would dine with some friends at Kensington and get back late. Euphan went to bed, and I was smoking a comfortable pipe about midnight when I heard his foot on the gravel. When I opened the door he gave a stumble on the step, and I looked at him sharply."Hulloa, Dunbar," I said. "I don't like this at all.""Oh, I'm all right; it's very dark, isn't it? Sorry if I've kept you up," he said confusedly. He had had some drink I could see, but was not dazed or unable to behave himself decently. I had just made myself a cup of black coffee, which I often took last thing at night, and when I helped him off with his coat I asked him to come into my den and share it. It had its immediate effect of sobering him completely, and I offered him a cigar.For a minute or two we smoked in silence. Then I spoke."Now, Harry, this isn't good enough," I began, and I saw him wince."I'm awfully sorry. I had just a little drop too much; was dining with some fellows at the Monico.""I thought you said it was with friends at Kensington.""Well, they live at Kensington," he said readily; "but we dined out.""My wife won't like this sort of thing, Dunbar," I observed quietly. "If you are our guest—well you'll need to consider her.""Of course, of course, old chap; awfully sorry; sha'n't happen again; and I expect to sail on Friday. Went to the office this morning and they told me I must get on board by ten o'clock on Friday night.""What I want to know is why you came here at all, Dunbar. I don't want to be inquisitive, but in the circumstances I think I have a right to ask just one question. It's very queer that you should be in London starting on a long voyage without any money in your pocket. What does it mean?""Easily explained, my dear fellow. You know my old governor at Faulds, well enough, has queer ideas about the oof; thinks a fellow can do without it altogether, positively he does," he said airily, but I observed that he looked straight into the fire and not at me."He may be careful about money; perhaps he has to be," I answered casually. "But at the

same time, from what I know of Captain Dunbar, I should say he was a reasonable person, and would know that you couldn't travel on nothing.""Of course he gave me something, but a mere bagatelle, and I had to lend a chap down on his luck a tenner," he said, still gazing evasively into the fire. "It's awfully good of you to have me, and upon my word I'll behave up to the mark after this."And he did, during the three remaining days of his stay, but there was something odd about him, which my wife noticed too."He reminds me of Jimmy Carfrae, David," she said one day. "He's got something on his mind."If he had he did not unburden himself to us. He stayed at home all that afternoon, and for a man who was expected to be on board at a fixed time, and who knew the ship would not wait for him, was very slack about getting his things together and making for the docks."He hasn't packed a thing, David," said Euphan to me about eight o'clock, "and Jeanie says his room is a sight to behold, with photographs and things scattered about it. If he doesn't get out of here by nine o'clock the boat will certainly sail without him.""Do you think I should go to the docks with him"Certainly not, my man," she said decidedly. "Only get him away. I don't like these mysteries. It will be better for Master Harry Dunbar when he is under service discipline again."It was quite a caustic speech for my wife to make, and I saw that for various reasons Harry Dunbar had not commended himself to her. Well, we got him away about nine o'clock, and I thought he seemed oddly moved at parting with Euphan. I could have sworn there were tears in his eyes, but when I told her she only laughed and said I had imagined it. Next morning on my plate was a letter addressed in the handwriting I had learned to know during the last week. It was written from the Cannon Street Hotel, and its contents were a surprise. I passed it over to Euphan without speaking."I am not surprised that he hasn't sailed; I felt that he had no intention. And he wants to see you, David; you'll need to make a point of it. Do you believe he really is feeling ill?""No, except in his mind. I'll wire him to wait in for me this morning. It's a queer business, and if he weren't a Faulds laddie I should let him alone. What do you think?""I think--well, I think he has spent the money his grandfather gave him among his boon companions; but there's something else, I can't surmise what.""We must just possess our souls in patience till I see him," I said then."Well, unless it seems necessary," said Euphan, with a slight emphasis on her last word, "don't bring him back again.""Right, my dear; but we must keep an eye on him for his grandfather's sake."I went straight down to the hotel. Saturday was a slack day for me, and I was curious enough about the affair to unravel it without delay. I found him up, lounging about the hotel entrance, with a very miserable-looking face. I nodded good morning to him, but did not offer my hand. We went into the smoking-room, which was almost deserted at that hour, and sat down in its remotest corner."Well, now, what's the meaning of this?" I asked quite straightly."I want to tell you, but it isn't easy," he said, rather shamefacedly. "I don't know what you'll say or think of me. I've behaved awfully badly.""In what way?""Well, you see, I must begin at the beginning. When I got word about my appointment on the Pacific Coast my governor--I mean my grandfather--was ill, too ill to see about anything. He was awfully glad of the appointment, because, you see, I'd been loafing about Faulds for over three months, and we all got a bit sick of it. He wasn't able to take any steps about my passage or anything. He simply gave me a cheque for the amount, and I came off to London.""Well, and what then?""I meant it all quite straight when I came, but I fell in with some chaps that were at Malta with me last year, and—and--well, we had a jollification, and the money went before I knew where I was.""Your passage money you, mean—all of it?""Every blessed penny, except the tenner I told you of, the half of which I got back the other day.""So you had actually no berth secured in the Cervantes?""Well, no, not a berth exactly; but there's something else I'm a sight more ashamed of than bursting the money.""Well?""I went to the company--an inferior lot they are, you know, run cheap passengers and cheap cargo--and I offered to go as second officer.""That was all right, wasn't it?""No, it was all wrong, because, don't you see, I had no money to buy my outfit, and would have had to wear my service uniform; but when it came to taking off the buttons and putting on the company's I funked it. I really couldn't Lyall, so I never looked near the place last night."I looked at him steadily."It's a queer story; and what's going to happen now?"He stared gloomily before him, and for the moment I felt sorry for him. He had sown a crop of wild oats, and did not know where to turn."I wish I knew. One thing is certain: the governor'll never forgive me. He'll turn me out. It's just the sort of thing he couldn't swallow, don't you see? What am I to do? I wish somebody had put a bullet through me before I made such a fool of myself."I saw that he was genuinely penitent and ashamed of himself."You'll have to own up to your grandfather; there's nothing else to be done.""Well, I'll have to write first. I haven't as much as will take me to Scotland. Then he's ill poor old chap; and my aunt, too, will be awfully cut up."I admitted that this would be so, but I saw no other way out."Somehow I didn't think I had behaved so badly until I was at your house and talked with your wife. The fellows thought it a huge joke you see. But she made me feel mean enough, even while she was so kind. It pays to be a white man, Lyall. I wish I was one.""You'll be one yet," I said cheerily. "Perhaps this'll be a lesson to you.  And you've never looked near the ship or the office. What would they do?""I don't know; but they don't actually sail, you know, until four o'clock this afternoon. Only the officers had to be aboard last night.""Oh, they don't?" I said musingly. "And if you had the money, would you go.""I'd go steerage if I could raise the wind," he said dejectedly. "What's worrying me is what I'm going to say to the powers that be. I'll have to feign illness, but who's to testify?""Better not tell any more lies. So you would go steerage, would you? Well, if you're in

earnest, come along down to the shipping office and see what can be done."He jumped up and gripped my hand."You wouldn't, would you, Lyall? Man, if you would, I'd repay you every penny off my first pay. Gad! what a relief if I could get away this afternoon, and if the governor needn't know!""We'll go down and see."As we walked I pondered the thing in my mind, and wondered whether it would be worth while to pay this money for Harry Dunbar. I also pondered the question of the steerage. Five weeks is a long time to be on steerage fare, but I thought I would test him. At the shipping office door I stopped."Did you mean that about the steerage, Dunbar?""Honour bright. I tell you you don't know what it means to me to have the chance of getting away.""And you'll pay me back? I can't afford to lose as much.""I'll pay you back," he answered soberly, and looked me straight in the face. We stepped inside, and I took out a second-class passage for him to Sydney, and never lost sight of him until I saw him on board. Punctually at four o'clock the
Cervantes left the dock. Only then I left him, feeling assured that he was actually off.Wondering what had kept me so late, Euphan was waiting eagerly to hear the result of my day's work."You did right and well, David; but I think I should have let him go steerage--it would have done him good.""You don't know what you're talking about, lass," I answered. "Do you think we should tell Captain Dunbar?""Not just yet; later, perhaps, if anything else should turn up about him; but somehow I think he's going to turn over a new leaf. He's not a bad lad, David, only silly and easily led.""And do you think I'll ever see the colour of my forty pounds again? It was a good lot to bestow on a chap I knew so little of.""Great was your faith, dear; but you'll get it all back."And she was right. In nine months' time I had a grateful letter, with the remittance enclosed, and from that day Harry Dunbar did well. He has since become an ornament to his profession, and we meet occasionally on very friendly terms. He was grateful to me for the money, doubtless, but still more grateful that I did not tell the

gallant old Captain, who would have mourned so sincerely over the downfall of his bright hopes. He died believing that the boy of his love and hope was as nearly perfect as it is possible for human flesh and blood to be. It was touch-and-go with the lad, but I for one believe that Euphan was his real saviour. I number Harry Dunbar among the many whose lives were uplifted by her influence, which, like the sunshine, blessed all it touched.The Gresham Press, UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, WOKING AND
LONDON.Advert included in the back of Lyall's The
Lights of Home.Advert included in the back of Lyall's The
Lights of Home.