plunged into my story. I told him everything plainly and truthfully, not sparing myself in the recital, but doggedly and dispassionately, as though it were a story I had heard of someone else's life. It did not then strike me that there was anything at all strange in confiding the secrets of my innermost life to an utter stranger-that knowledge came afterHe never moved, and only interrupted me once to ask

wards.

Did you say he was a parson?" And as I nodded, he said, indignantly: "By Jove! What an awful bounder! Well, never mind. Go on!"

"There's nothing more," I said. "I told you the baby died. That's the end."

"I see. Well, now we come back to my first question. Why did you speak to me to-night?”

I was silent, but uncomfortably conscious of a burning flush that spread slowly over my face and neck. If the floor only could have opened and swallowed me up out of sight!

After a moment's pause, he said, quietly: "Then it had come to that! I see. But don't you think it was rather a feeble thing to have thought of doing?" "I know now that it was wrong-but-but-oh, I've been very wicked. I think I must have been mad—you don't know how hard everything has been -you've been very, very good to me. I shall never

forget it, never!"

'Oh, that's all right. Don't you think you'd better make a fresh start, and chuck a bit more pluck into it? Try the new leaf business. You know.

Let's

see; what would be the best way to set about it? How about that Matron at the hospital? She's a good old sort, I should think.

to put you on to something."

She ought to be able

"I'm not going back there-I can't!"

"Yes, you can; now don't be foolish. It's the only decent place you've got to go to, and you must do something, don't you know. See here, this is what

you're going to do.

stay here to-night. across the road.

Then to-morrow we'll go off down

to Victoria, and you can catch a train that will land you in time to have lunch with the old girl. How does that strike you?"

I began a feeble protest against turning him out of his rooms, but was cut very short by his continuingLook here-by the way, what is your name ?— oh, Evelyn Grey. Well, look here, Miss Evelyn Grey, don't you ever start on this evening's racket again! Leave that to people who know more about it. Lord knows I'm no fit person to preach, but you seem to me to be rather a helpless sort of creature, and it's about time someone took you in hand. I've got a sister, and-well, hang it all, you must never do this sort of thing any more. You can't be expected to understand everything; but when you're a bit older, you'll know what it means, and it'll look very different to you then, and if you remember it all, you will thank me, unless I'm much mistaken, for bullying you and making you cry now." With which, patting my shoulder with brotherly kindness, he lighted another

து

pipe, and, saying "Good-night!" went off, and locked the front door of the flat behind him.

Twenty minutes later I had forgotten all my troubles in a deep, dreamless slumber, from which I was awakened, it seemed almost immediately, by the handle of the bedroom door being vigorously rattled, and a cheerful voice calling out: "Hi! Get up! It's nine o'clock, and I've got breakfast ready."

I had forgotten where I was, and everything that had happened. Then, a sudden recollection and the memory of the last few strange days, coupled with the culminating crisis of the previous evening, came surging through my brain and I was completely overwhelmed with a sense of utter shame. A flood of hot, burning tears that seemed to sear my very eyeballs, came to my partial relief, although by the time I was dressed I could hardly summon up sufficient courage to meet my unknown benefactor. But as I stood hesitating, with my hand on the door knob, his cheery, boyish voice again called out, "Look sharp! The haddock's getting cold!"

With an effort I opened the door, and entered the sitting-room, stammering an apology for being so long. While we were at breakfast he said: "I've looked out your train. It goes at ten past eleven, so you've got plenty of time. Come, you look all the better for your night's rest. Slept well?"

"Yes, indeed, thank you," I replied; "and I must try again to thank you for all you've done for me. I must have been quite mad last night. I don't think that even you know all that you've done for me.”

"Don't think any more about it.

That's all over

and done with. Have some more haddock. It's not quite so unwholesome as it looks. Oh, by the way,

here's my card. If ever you're in any sort of trouble again, don't hesitate a moment, but let me know, and, if I can, I'll help you just the same as if I were your brother. Don't forget."

"Indeed, I shan't forget," I said, and, moved by a sudden impulse which I have never yet regretted, and never shall, I rose from my chair, and, putting my arm round his neck, kissed him.

CHAPTER XI

THE CLEARING OF THE MIST

It was almost one o'clock before the first morning train steamed into the village station I was beginning to know so well. A cold sea-fog enveloped church, houses, and Hospital alike in a white, gauzy veil; but although this showed the country in an even less attractive light than had the miserable rain of the previous day, it was with a sensation of calm gladness that I welcomed each now-familiar landmark whilst I walked down to the Infirmary. For the terrible mists which had clouded my brain for so long seemed to have suddenly and entirely cleared. I knew I had at last left the burial-place of dead friendships—ambitions—longings—disappointments -where I had dwelt so long, like the poor lunatic, in the story we know so well, who had been possessed of many devils and was one day found sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed, and in his right mind.

The Matron was in her sitting-room; I saw that in one fleeting glance as I passed the window, and then hastened round to the front door and went instraight down the hall to the little old-fashioned