and yet seemed unable to explain her meaning, or to state her objections
clearly.

"Oh! Phil, dear," she said at last, "don't plan and arrange too much.
Let us try to walk so that we may be led by God, and not run in advance
of him."

Phil was perplexed and disappointed, for May not only appeared to throw
cold water on his efforts, but seemed unwilling to give her personal aid
in the rescue of her old playmate. He was wrong in this. In the
circumstances, poor May could not with propriety bring personal
influence to bear on Aspel, but she could and did pray for him with all
the ardour of a young and believing heart.

"It's a very strange thing," continued Phil, "that George won't take
assistance from any one. I know that he is in want--that he has not
money enough to buy respectable clothes so as to be able to appear among
his old friends, yet he will not take a sixpence from me--not even as a
loan."

May did not answer. With her face hid in her hands she sat on the edge
of her bed, weeping at the thought of her lover's fallen condition.
Poor May! People said that telegraphic work was too hard for her,
because her cheeks were losing the fresh bloom that she had brought from
the west of Ireland, and the fingers with which she manipulated the keys
so deftly were growing very thin. But sorrow had more to do with the
change than the telegraph had.

"It must be pride," said her brother.

"Oh! Phil," she said, looking up, "don't you think that shame has more
to do with it than pride?"

Phil stooped and kissed her.

"Sure it's that, no doubt, and I'm a beast entirely for suggesting
pride."

"Supper! Hallo in there," shouted Mr Flint, thundering at the door;
"don't keep the old 'ooman waiting!"

Phil and May came forth at once, but the former would not remain to
supper. He had to visit Mr Blurt, he said, and might perhaps sup with
him. Pax would go with him.

"Well, my lads, please yourselves," said Mr Flint,--wheeling the old
woman to the table, on which smoked a plentiful supply of her favourite
sausages.

"Let me take the cat off your lap, grannie," said May.

"Let the cat be, lassie; it's daein' nae ill. Are the callants gaein'
oot?"

"Yes, grannie," said Phil, "we have business to attend to."

"Bizness!" exclaimed Mrs Flint. "Weel, weel, they lay heavy burdens on
'ee at that Post-Office. Night an' day--night an' day. They've maist
killed my Solomon. They've muckle to answer for."

In h