ay of closing; to make it so would be to
deprive ourselves of the greatest opportunity. Your freedom for one
entire day in the week should be guaranteed.

'I offer this because I should like to have you working with me, and
because I believe that such work would be more to your taste than that
in which you are now occupied. It would, moreover, leave you a good
deal of time for study; we are not likely to be overwhelmed with
readers and borrowers during the daytime. But you will consider the
proposal precisely as you would do if it came from a stranger, and will
accept or reject it as you see fit.

'I leave town to-day for about a week. Will you write to me at the end
of that time?--Always yours, my dear Grail,

'WALTER EGREMONT.'

Mrs. Grail showed no curiosity about the letter; the subject of the
interrupted conversation held her musing. When Gilbert had folded the
sheets, and, in the manner of one who receives few letters, returned it
to its envelope, he said:

'Yes, it's about the library. He's taken the house for seven years.'

His mother murmured an expression of interest. For another minute the
clock on the mantel-piece ticked loud; then Gilbert rose, and without
saying anything, went out.

He entered his bedroom. The darkness was complete, but he moved with
the certainty of habit to a chair by the head of the bed, and there
seated himself. Presently he felt a painful surging in his throat, then
a gush of warm tears forced its way to his eyes. It cost him a great
effort to resist the tendency to sob aloud. He was hot and cold
alternately, and trembled as though a fever were coming upon him.

In a quarter of an hour he lit the candle, and, after a glance at
himself in the glass, bathed his face. Then he took down his overcoat
from the door, and put it on. His hat, too, he took, and went to the
parlour.

'I have to go out, mother,' he said, standing at the door. 'I'll be
back by supper-time.'

'Very well, my dear,' was the quiet reply.

He walked out to the edge of the pavement, and stood a moment, as if in
doubt as to his direction. Then he looked at the upper windows of the
house, as we saw him do one night half a year ago. There was a light
this time in the sisters' room.

He turned towards Lambeth Walk. The market of Christmas Eve was flaring
and clamorous; the odours of burning naphtha and fried fish were
pungent on the wind. He walked a short distance among the crowd, then
found the noise opp