ve known him go out of his way to do a struggling man a service.'

'You are a bad sleeper?' I said, in a tone that proclaimed at once
that I was a bad sleeper also.

'Yes,' said he, 'and so are you, as I noticed the other night. I can
always tell. There is something in the eyes when a man is a bad
sleeper that proclaims it to me.'

Then springing up from the divan and laying his hand upon my
shoulder, he said, 'And you have a great trouble at the heart. You
have had some great loss the effect of which is sapping the very
fountains of your life. We should be friends. We must be friends. I
asked you to call upon me because we must be friends.'

His voice was so tender that I was almost unmanned.

I will not dwell upon this part of my narrative; I will only say that
I told him something of my story, and he told me his.

I told him that a terrible trouble had unhinged the mind of a young
lady whom I deeply loved, and that she had been lost on the Welsh
hills. I felt that it was only right that I should know more of him
before giving him the more intimate details connected with Winnie,
myself, and the secrets of my family. He listened to every word with
the deepest attention and sympathy. After a while he said,

'You must not go to your hotel to-night. A friend of mine who
occupies two rooms is not sleeping here to-night, and I particularly
wish for you to take his bed, so that I can see you in the morning.
We shall not breakfast together. My breakfast is a peculiarly
irregular meal. But when you wake ring your bedroom bell and order
your own breakfast; afterwards we shall meet in the studio.'

I did not in the least object to this arrangement, for I found his
society a great relief.

Next morning, after I had finished my solitary breakfast, I asked the
servant if Mr. D'Arcy had yet risen. On being told that he had not, I
went downstairs into the studio where I had spent the previous
evening. After examining the pictures on the walls and the easels, I
walked to the window and looked out at the garden. It was large, and
so neglected and untrimmed as to be a veritable wilderness. While I
was marvelling why it should have been left in this state, I saw the
eyes of some animal staring at me from the distance, and was soon
astonished to see that they belonged to a little Indian bull. My
curiosity induced me to go into the garden and look at the creature.
He seemed rather threatening at first, but after a while allowed