rt. The office clock pointed to half-past three
before I caught the clerk's eye, and saw him beckon me up to the
counter. I had thrown back my veil, for here I was perfectly safe from
recognition. At the other end of the counter, in the compartment devoted
to curates, doctors' assistants, and others, there stood a young man in
earnest consultation with another clerk. He looked earnestly at me, but
I was sure he could not know me.

"Miss Ellen Martineau?" said the clerk. That was my mother's name, and I
had adopted it for my own, feeling as if I had some right to it.

"Yes," I answered.

"Would you object to go into a French school as governess?" he inquired.

"Not in the least," I said, eagerly.

"And pay a small premium?" he added. "How much?" I asked, my spirits
falling again.

"A mere trifle," he said; "about ten pounds or so for twelve months. You
would perfect yourself in French, you know; and you would gain a referee
for the future."

"I must think about it," I replied.

"Well, there is the address of a lady who can give you all the
particulars," he said, handing me a written paper.

I left the office heavy-hearted. Ten pounds would be more than the half
of the little store left to me. Yet, would it not be wiser to secure a
refuge and shelter for twelve months than run the risk of hearing of
some other situation? I walked slowly along the street toward the busier
thoroughfares, with my head bent down and my mind busy, when suddenly a
heavy hand was laid upon my arm, grasping it with crushing force, and a
harsh, thick voice shouted triumphantly in my ear:

"The devil! I've caught you at last!"

It was like the bitterness of death, that chill and terror sweeping over
me. My husband's hot breath was upon my cheek, and his eyes were looking
closely into mine. But before I could speak his grasp was torn away from
me, and he was sent whirling into the middle of the road. I turned,
almost in equal terror, to see who had thrust himself between us. It was
the stranger whom I had seen in the agency-office. But his face was now
dark with passion, and as my husband staggered back again toward us, his
hand was ready to thrust him away a second time.

"She's my wife," he stammered, trying to get past the stranger to me. By
this time a knot of spectators had formed about us, and a policeman had
come up. The stranger drew my arm through his, and faced them defiantly.

"He's a drunken vagabond!" he said; "he has jus