to him than the brass pump-handle she drew.

He was very thin and lantern-jawed. He dared not meet his own eyes
in the mirror; he never looked at himself. He wanted to get away from
himself, but there was nothing to get hold of. In despair he thought of
Miriam. Perhaps--perhaps--?

Then, happening to go into the Unitarian Church one Sunday evening, when
they stood up to sing the second hymn he saw her before him. The light
glistened on her lower lip as she sang. She looked as if she had got
something, at any rate: some hope in heaven, if not in earth. Her
comfort and her life seemed in the after-world. A warm, strong feeling
for her came up. She seemed to yearn, as she sang, for the mystery and
comfort. He put his hope in her. He longed for the sermon to be over, to
speak to her.

The throng carried her out just before him. He could nearly touch her.
She did not know he was there. He saw the brown, humble nape of her neck
under its black curls. He would leave himself to her. She was better and
bigger than he. He would depend on her.

She went wandering, in her blind way, through the little throngs of
people outside the church. She always looked so lost and out of place
among people. He went forward and put his hand on her arm. She started
violently. Her great brown eyes dilated in fear, then went questioning
at the sight of him. He shrank slightly from her.

"I didn't know--" she faltered.

"Nor I," he said.

He looked away. His sudden, flaring hope sank again.

"What are you doing in town?" he asked.

"I'm staying at Cousin Anne's."

"Ha! For long?"

"No; only till to-morrow."

"Must you go straight home?"

She looked at him, then hid her face under her hat-brim.

"No," she said--"no; it's not necessary."

He turned away, and she went with him. They threaded through the throng
of church people. The organ was still sounding in St. Mary's. Dark
figures came through the lighted doors; people were coming down the
steps. The large coloured windows glowed up in the night. The church was
like a great lantern suspended. They went down Hollow Stone, and he took
the car for the Bridges.

"You will just have supper with me," he said: "then I'll bring you
back."

"Very well," she replied, low and husky.

They scarcely spoke while they were on the car. The Trent ran dark and
full under the bridge. Away towards Colwick all was black night. He
lived down Holme Road, on the naked edge of the town, facing across