pot to which he had a right. He made no effort to
see Felicita.

He stayed till he touched his last shilling. It was already winter, and
the short, dark days, with their thick fogs, made the wintry months
little better than one long night. To-morrow he must leave England,
never to return to it. He strayed aimlessly about the gloomy streets,
letting his feet bear him whither they would, until he found himself
looking down through the iron railings upon the deserted yard in front
of the Houses of Parliament. The dark mass of the building loomed
heavily through the yellow fog, but beyond it came the sound of bells
ringing in the invisible Abbey. It was the hour for morning prayer, and
Jean Merle sauntered listlessly onwards until he reached the northern
entrance and turned into the transept. The dim daylight scarcely lit up
the lofty arches in the roof or the farther end of the long aisles, but
he gave no heed to either. He sank down on a chair and bent his gray
head on the back of the chair before him; the sweet solemn chanting of
the white-robed choristers echoed under the roof, and the sacred and
soothing tones of prayer floated pest him. But he did not move or lift
his head. He sat there absorbed in his own thoughts, and the hours
seemed only as floating minutes to him. Visitors came and went, chatting
close beside him, and the vergers, with their quiet footsteps, came one
by one to look at this motionless, poverty-stricken form, whose face no
man could see, but nobody disturbed him. He had a right to be there, as
still, and as solitary, and as silent as he pleased.

But when Canon Pascal came up the long aisle to evening prayers and saw
again the same gray head bowed down in the same despondent attitude as
he had left it in the morning, he could scarcely refrain himself from
pausing then and there, before the evening service proceeded, to speak
to this man. He had caught a momentary glimpse of his face, and it had
haunted him in his study in the interval, until he had half reproached
himself for not answering to that silent appeal its wretchedness had
made. But he had had no expectation of seeing it again.

It was dark by the time the evening service was over, and Canon Pascal
hastily divested himself of his surplice, that he might not seem to
approach the stranger as a clergyman, but rather as an equal. The Abbey
was being cleared of its visitors, and the lights were being put out one
by one, when he sat down on th