f as a haunting, unseen presence. And
then at moments there gleamed upon him the wistful fancy that, beneath
all the phrases and arguments with which he had equipped himself for
the battle, it was really his love for Margaret was helping him to be
strong, that it was the hope of his one day attaining to be worthy of
her friendship was aiding his self-purification, that it was the flame
she had lit in him had now sprung up again, defying all the mean
elements by which he was surrounded to eat into his spirit.

And once the fancy had come to him, he nurtured it, so that it grew
and grew and became part of his very self. If, indeed, it had not been
truth when it had first come to him, it was truth now.

CHAPTER IV.

Strolling out one evening, about the end of August, to cool after the
heated atmosphere of the workshop, Morgan was dreaming a beautiful
vain dream. He had gone half way down the shorter St. Margaret's road,
and in the distance rose the square church-tower. For the last two or
three minutes he had been conscious of people a few yards ahead of
him, and, as their slow stroll was yet slower than his, he had been
getting nearer and nearer to them. Now his eye rested half vacantly on
their backs, and the perception forced itself upon him that the three
backs were those of ladies; and the next thing that dawned upon him
was that there was something familiar as well as pleasing about the
carriage, the curves, and the movements of those backs, still some
twenty paces ahead of him. But he was still dreaming of Margaret, and
these perceptions from the outer world were not strong enough to
destroy the images in possession of his mind. He was quite close on
them before he became aware that he had stumbled on Mrs. Medhurst,
Margaret, and Diana.

Though conscious of them, he had, in his abstraction, almost walked on
them in the narrow road, making them turn instinctively. He knew he
was trembling visibly as he stood face to face with Margaret, her
figure flashing on him for a moment like a divine vision; then he saw
nothing and felt a fire burning at his temples.

"Morgan," said Mrs. Medhurst's sweet voice, and the cloud of things
passed away, and he became aware her arm was supporting him.

"So we know your hiding-place now," sang out Diana. "Why wouldn't you
let my old sweetheart tell me? I'm sure I'd have got it out of him all
the same had he been in London."

"Morgan doesn't even offer to shake hands with