da asked nervously.

"I was just thinking there might be people over there you'd be glad to
see," he brought out awkwardly. Hilda said nothing, and as they walked
on MacConnell spoke again, apologetically: "I hope you don't mind my
knowing about it, Hilda. Don't stiffen up like that. No one else knows,
and I didn't try to find out anything. I felt it, even before I knew who
he was. I knew there was somebody, and that it wasn't I."

They crossed Oxford Street in silence, feeling their way. The busses had
stopped running and the cab-drivers were leading their horses. When
they reached the other side, MacConnell said suddenly, "I hope you are
happy."

"Terribly, dangerously happy, Mac,"--Hilda spoke quietly, pressing the
rough sleeve of his greatcoat with her gloved hand.

"You've always thought me too old for you, Hilda,--oh, of course you've
never said just that,--and here this fellow is not more than eight years
younger than I. I've always felt that if I could get out of my old case
I might win you yet. It's a fine, brave youth I carry inside me, only
he'll never be seen."

"Nonsense, Mac. That has nothing to do with it. It's because you seem
too close to me, too much my own kind. It would be like marrying Cousin
Mike, almost. I really tried to care as you wanted me to, away back in
the beginning."

"Well, here we are, turning out of the Square. You are not angry with
me, Hilda? Thank you for this walk, my dear. Go in and get dry things on
at once. You'll be having a great night to-morrow."

She put out her hand. "Thank you, Mac, for everything. Good-night."

MacConnell trudged off through the fog, and she went slowly upstairs.
Her slippers and dressing gown were waiting for her before the fire. "I
shall certainly see him in New York. He will see by the papers that we
are coming. Perhaps he knows it already," Hilda kept thinking as she
undressed. "Perhaps he will be at the dock. No, scarcely that; but I may
meet him in the street even before he comes to see me." Marie placed
the tea-table by the fire and brought Hilda her letters. She looked them
over, and started as she came to one in a handwriting that she did not
often see; Alexander had written to her only twice before, and he did
not allow her to write to him at all. "Thank you, Marie. You may go
now."

Hilda sat down by the table with the letter in her hand, still unopened.
She looked at it intently, turned it over, and felt its thickness with
her fin