nd she was possessed
by a burning longing to comfort and save. In the midst of the fog and
darkness God had sent to her a great opportunity. She rose to it with a
dignity which seemed to set the restless, self-centred Betty of an hour
ago years behind. Her fingers tightened on the stranger's arm; she
spoke in firm, quiet tones.

"I can guess what you mean! Forgive me for teasing you with my silly
questions when you are in such trouble. Do you think you could tell me
what it is? It seems a strange thing to ask, but I am no real person
to-night. I am just a shadow that has come out of the fog. I have not
even a face or a name. You might speak to me as safely as to the air
itself, and it might be a relief to put it into words. It is so
sometimes when one is in trouble."

There was a moment's silence, then--

"Thank you," he said in a softened voice. "It's kind of you to think of
it. You might have condemned me at once, as not fit to speak to a girl
like you. You are only a girl, aren't you? Your voice sounds very
young."

"Yes, only eighteen--nearly eighteen. But my father is a doctor, so I
am always being brought near to sad things, and sometimes I feel quite
old. I think I could understand if you told me your trouble."

"Suppose it was not so much sorrow as sin? What then? What can you at
eighteen--`nearly eighteen'--know of that? You could not understand if
I did speak."

"Oh yes, I could. I sin myself--often!" cried Betty, with a swift
remembrance of all those little things done or left undone which made
the failure of her home life. "A girl living at home, with a father and
a mother to look after her, has no temptation to any big thing, but it's
just as bad, if she is idle and selfish and ungrateful, and I am all
three together many times over. I'd be too proud to say that to you if
I saw your face and knew your name; but, as I said before, we are only
shadows in a dream to-night. It doesn't matter what we say. Tell me
your trouble, and let me try to understand. It isn't because I am
curious--it isn't really! Do you believe that?"

"Yes," he said instantly, "I do! Poor child, you want to help; but I am
past that. I have ruined my own life and the life of the man who has
been my best friend. I have had my chance--a better chance than is
given to most men--and I have made an utter failure of it. If I--went
on, it would mean starting again from the very beginning, with the
stigma of