ss of her face. I have already spoken of
the tasteful simplicity of her dress. I ought now to add that it was not
made of any costly material, and that she wore no jewels or ornaments of
any sort. My little lady was not rich; even a man's eye could see that.

She was perfectly unembarrassed and unaffected. We fell as easily into
talk as if we had been friends instead of strangers.

I asked how it was that she had no companion to take care of her. "You
are too young and too pretty," I said in my blunt English way, "to trust
yourself alone in such a place as this."

She took no notice of the compliment. She calmly put it away from her as
if it had not reached her ears.

"I have no friend to take care of me," she said simply. "I was sad
and sorry this evening, all by myself, and I thought I would go to the
Gardens and hear the music, just to amuse me. It is not much to pay at
the gate; only a shilling."

"No friend to take care of you?" I repeated. "Surely there must be one
happy man who might have been here with you to-night?"

"What man do you mean?" she asked.

"The man," I answered thoughtlessly, "whom we call, in England, a
Sweetheart."

I would have given worlds to have recalled those foolish words the
moment they passed my lips. I felt that I had taken a vulgar liberty
with her. Her face saddened; her eyes dropped to the ground. I begged
her pardon.

"There is no need to beg my pardon," she said. "If you wish to know,
sir--yes, I had once a sweetheart, as you call it in England. He has
gone away and left me. No more of him, if you please. I am rested now. I
will thank you again, and go home."

She rose to leave me.

I was determined not to part with her in that way. I begged to be
allowed to see her safely back to her own door. She hesitated. I took
a man's unfair advantage of her, by appealing to her fears. I said,
"Suppose the blackguard who annoyed you should be waiting outside the
gates?" That decided her. She took my arm. We went away together by the
bank of the Thames, in the balmy summer night.

A walk of half an hour brought us to the house in which she lodged--a
shabby little house in a by-street, inhabited evidently by very poor
people.

She held out her hand at the door, and wished me good-night. I was
too much interested in her to consent to leave my little foreign lady
without the hope of seeing her again. I asked permission to call on her
the next day. We were standing under the light