lone
after nightfall, catching brief glimpses of the great out-door
population, who were content if they could get a shelter for their heads
during the few, short hours they could give to sleep, without indulging
in the luxury of a home. When talking to them she could return to the
rustic and homely dialect of her childhood; and from her own early
experience she could understand their wants, and look at them from their
stand-point, whilst feeling for them a sympathy and pity intensified by
the education which had lifted her above them.

But to-night she passed along the busy streets both deaf and dumb,
mechanically choosing the right way between the Abbey and her home,
nearly three miles away. There was only one circumstance of which she
was conscious--that Jean Merle was following her. Possibly he was afraid
in the depths of his heart that she would fail him when she came to
deliberately consider all he had told her. He wronged her, she said to
herself indignantly. Still, whenever she turned her head she caught
sight of his tall, bent figure and gray head, stealing after her at some
distance, but never losing her. So mournful was it to Phebe, to see her
oldest and her dearest friend thus dogging her footsteps, that once or
twice she paused at a street corner to give him time to overtake her;
but he kept aloof. He wished only to see where she lived, for there also
lived Felicita and Hilda.

She turned at last into the square where their house was. It was
brilliantly lighted up, for Felicita was having one of her rare
receptions that evening, and in another hour or two the rooms would be
filled with guests. It was too early yet, and Hilda was playing on her
piano in the drawing-room, the merry notes ringing out into the quiet
night. There was a side door to Phebe's studio, by which she could go in
and out at pleasure, and she stood at it trying to fit her latch-key
into the lock with her trembling hands. Looking back she saw Jean Merle
some little distance away, leaning against the railings that enclosed
the Square garden.

"Oh! I must run back to him! I must speak to him again!" she cried to
her own heart. In another instant she was at his side, with her hands
clasping his.

"Oh!" she sobbed, "what can I do for you? This is too miserable for you;
and for me as well. Tell me what I can do."

"Nothing," he answered. "Why, you make me feel as if I had sinned again
in telling you all this. I ought not to have troubled