e in, if you like.'

She drew back to admit him, but in the passage stood looking at her
letter. Barmby was perplexed and embarrassed.

'You had rather I called again?'

'Called again? Just as you like.'

'Oh, then I will stay,' said Samuel bluntly. For he had things in mind
which disposed him to resent this flagrant discourtesy.

His voice awakened Nancy. She opened the door of the dining-room.

'Will you sit down, Mr. Barmby, and excuse me for a few minutes?'

'Certainly. Don't let me inconvenience you, Miss. Lord.'

At another time Nancy would have remarked something very unusual in his
way of speaking, especially in the utterance of her name. But for the
letter in her hand she must have noticed with uneasiness a certain
severity of countenance, which had taken the place of Barmby's wonted
smile. As it was, she scarcely realised his presence; and, on closing
the door of the room he had entered, she forthwith forgot that such a
man existed.

Her letter! His handwriting at last. And he was in England.

She flew up to her bedroom, and tore open the envelope. He was in
London; 'Great College Street, S. W.' A short letter, soon read.

DEAREST NANCY,--I am ashamed to write, yet write I must. All your
letters reached me; there was no reason for my silence but the
unwillingness to keep sending bad news. I have still nothing good to
tell you, but here I am in London again, and you must know of it.

When I posted my last letter to you from New York, I meant to come back
as soon as I could get money enough to pay my passage. Since then I have
gone through a miserable time, idle for the most part, ill for a few
weeks, and occasionally trying to write something that editors would pay
for. But after all I had to borrow. It has brought me home (steerage, if
you know what that means), and now I must earn more.

If we were to meet, I might be able to say something else. I can't write
it. Let me hear from you, if you think me worth a letter.--Yours ever,
dear girl,

L.

For a quarter of an hour she stood with this sheet open, as though still
reading. Her face was void of emotion; she had a vacant look, cheerless,
but with no more decided significance.

Then she remembered that Samuel Barmby was waiting for her downstairs.
He might have something to say which really concerned her. Better see
him at once and get rid of him. With slow step she descended to the
dining-room. The letter, folded and rolled, she carried in