ad he any reason
for avoiding her? Did he take it ill that her father had shown no desire
to keep up his acquaintance?

She allowed the interval between them to become greater. In a minute or
two Milvain turned up Charlotte Street, and so she lost sight of him.

In Tottenham Court Road she waited for an omnibus that would take her
to the remoter part of Camden Town; obtaining a corner seat, she drew as
far back as possible, and paid no attention to her fellow-passengers.
At a point in Camden Road she at length alighted, and after ten
minutes' walk reached her destination in a quiet by-way called St Paul's
Crescent, consisting of small, decent houses. That at which she paused
had an exterior promising comfort within; the windows were clean and
neatly curtained, and the polishable appurtenances of the door gleamed
to perfection. She admitted herself with a latch-key, and went straight
upstairs without encountering anyone.

Descending again in a few moments, she entered the front room on the
ground-floor. This served both as parlour and dining-room; it was
comfortably furnished, without much attempt at adornment. On the walls
were a few autotypes and old engravings. A recess between fireplace and
window was fitted with shelves, which supported hundreds of volumes,
the overflow of Yule's library. The table was laid for a meal. It best
suited the convenience of the family to dine at five o'clock; a long
evening, so necessary to most literary people, was thus assured.
Marian, as always when she had spent a day at the Museum, was faint with
weariness and hunger; she cut a small piece of bread from a loaf on the
table, and sat down in an easy chair.

Presently appeared a short, slight woman of middle age, plainly dressed
in serviceable grey. Her face could never have been very comely, and it
expressed but moderate intelligence; its lines, however, were those of
gentleness and good feeling. She had the look of one who is making
a painful effort to understand something; this was fixed upon her
features, and probably resulted from the peculiar conditions of her
life.

'Rather early, aren't you, Marian?' she said, as she closed the door and
came forward to take a seat.

'Yes; I have a little headache.'

'Oh, dear! Is that beginning again?'

Mrs Yule's speech was seldom ungrammatical, and her intonation was not
flagrantly vulgar, but the accent of the London poor, which brands as
with hereditary baseness, still clung to he