ing cards into the
House, then returning and calling out names. Insensibly she drifted
towards these policemen.

"Ladies' Gallery, miss?" said a voice; "your order, please, though I
think it's full."

Here was a fresh complication. Beatrice had no order. She had no idea
that one was necessary.

"I haven't got an order," she said faintly. "I did not know that I must
have one. Can I not get in without?"

"Most certainly _not_, miss," answered the voice, while its owner,
suspecting dynamite, surveyed her with a cold official eye. "Now make
way, make way, please."

Beatrice's grey eyes filled with tears, as she turned to go in
bitterness of heart. So all her labour was in vain, and that which would
be done must be done without the mute farewell she sought. Well, when
sorrow was so much, what mattered a little more? She turned to go, but
not unobserved. A certain rather youthful Member of Parliament, with an
eye for beauty in distress, had been standing close to her, talking to
a constituent. The constituent had departed to wherever constituents
go--and many representatives, if asked, would cheerfully point out a
locality suitable to the genus, at least in their judgment--and the
member had overheard the conversation and seen Beatrice's eyes fill with
tears. "What a lovely woman!" he had said to himself, and then did what
he should have done, namely, lifted his hat and inquired if, as a member
of the House, he could be of any service to her. Beatrice listened,
and explained that she was particularly anxious to get into the Ladies'
Gallery.

"I think that I can help you, then," he said. "As it happens a lady, for
whom I got an order, has telegraphed to say that she cannot come. Will
you follow me? Might I ask you to give me your name?"

"Mrs. Everston," answered Beatrice, taking the first that came into her
head. The member looked a little disappointed. He had vaguely hoped that
this lovely creature was unappropriated. Surely her marriage could not
be satisfactory, or she would not look so sad.

Then came more stairs and passages, and formalities, till presently
Beatrice found herself in a kind of bird-cage, crowded to suffocation
with every sort of lady.

"I'm afraid--I am very much afraid----" began her new-found friend,
surveying the mass with dismay.

But at that moment, a stout lady in front feeling faint with the heat,
was forced to leave the Gallery, and almost before she knew where she
was, Beatrice was