as that in my life afore,' he muttered, as he
went back to his van; 'to go and lose a bit o' paper with writing on
it, d'reckly I got it, too; I'm afraid my head's a-leavin' me; they
ain't keepin' company, that's plain. I made a mess o' that, or he
wouldn't have wanted her direction. _I_ saw what he was up to--well,
they'd make a good-looking pair. I'm sorry I lost that there paper;
but it warn't no use a-tellin' of him.'

As for Mark, this lame and impotent conclusion brought back all his
depression again. 'She never even asked my name!' he thought,
bitterly. 'I risked my life for her--it _was_ for her, and she knew
it: but she has forgotten that already. I've lost her for ever this
time; she may not even live in London, and if she did I've no clue to
tell me where, and if I had I don't exactly see what use it would be;
I won't think about her--yes, I will, she can't prevent me from doing
that, at any rate!'

By this time he had left the City station of the Metropolitan Railway,
and was going back to his underground labours at St. Peter's, where he
was soon engaged in trying to establish something like discipline in
his class, which the dark brown fog seemed to have inspired with
unaccountable liveliness. His short holiday had not served to rest and
invigorate him as much as might have been expected; it had left him
consumed with a hopeless longing for something unattainable. His
thirst for distinction had returned in an aggravated form, and he had
cut himself off now from the only means of slaking it. As that day
wore on, and with each day that succeeded it, he felt a wearier
disgust with himself and his surroundings.

CHAPTER VIII.

BAD NEWS.

It was Christmas week, and Mrs. Langton and her daughters were
sitting, late one afternoon, in the drawing-room where we saw them
first. Dolly was on a low stool at her mother's feet, submitting, not
too willingly, to have the bow in her hair smoothed and arranged for
her. 'It _must_ be all right now, mother!' she said, breaking away
rebelliously at last.

'It's worse than ever, Dolly,' said Mrs. Langton plaintively; 'it's
slipped over to the left now!'

'But it doesn't matter, it never will keep straight long.'

'Well, if you _like_ to run about like a little wild child,' was the
resigned answer.

'Little wild children don't wear bows in their hair; they wear--well,
they don't wear anything they've got to be careful and tidy about. I
think that must be ra