ering sycamore and the
desolated house beneath, which, short as it was, roused feelings which
kept my head lowered for the remainder of my walk north and to the very
moment, when, on my return, the same chimneys and overhanging roofs came
again into view through the wintry branches. Then habit lifted my head,
and I paused to look again, when the low sound of a human voice,
suppressed into a moan or sob, caused me to glance about for the woman or
child who had uttered this note of sorrow. No one was in sight; but as I
started to move on, I heard my name uttered in choked tones from behind
the hedge separating the Fulton grounds from the city sidewalk.

I halted instantly. A lamp from the opposite side of the street threw a
broad illumination across the walk where I stood, but the gate-posts
behind threw a shadow. Had the voice issued from this isolated point of
darkness? I went back to see. A pitiful figure was crouching there, a
frail, agitated little being, whom I had no sooner recognised than my
manner instantly assumed an air of friendly interest, called out by her
timid and appealing attitude.

"Ella Fulton!" I exclaimed. "You wish to speak to me?"

"Hush!" she prayed, with a frightened gesture towards the house. "No one
knows I am here. Mamma thinks me in bed, and papa, who is out, may come
home any minute. Oh, Mr. Ranelagh, I'm in such misery and no one but you
can give me any help. I have watched you go by night after night, and I
have wanted to call out and beg you to come in and see me, or let me go
and meet you somewhere, and I have not dared, it was so late. To-night
you have come earlier, and I have slipped out and--O, Elwood, you won't
think badly of me? It's all about Arthur, and I shall die if some one
does not help me and tell me how I can reach him with a message."

As she spoke the last words, she caught at the gatepost which was too
broad and ponderous to offer her any hold. Gravely I held out my arm,
which she took; we were old friends and felt no necessity of standing on
any sort of ceremony.

"You don't wish to bother," was her sensitive cry. "You had rather not
stop; rather not listen to my troubles."

Had I shown my feelings so plainly as that? I felt mortified. She was a
girl of puny physique and nervous manner--the last sort of person you
would expect Arthur Cumberland to admire or even to have patience with,
and the very last sort who could be expected to endure his rough ways, or
find a