had thought she had smiled in answer
to his lifted hat. She had grown so sure of seeing him that now when
they had been in London a week and he had not appeared she found herself
suddenly sick of tombs and tourists.

Peggy's day had been a strenuous one of trams, motor-busses, abbeys, and
galleries, and though she realized an adventure might probably await her
outside, it was pleasant to sit for awhile in the dimness of the quiet
chapel. From her recess she could look out through the open doors upon
the tragic Tower Green, where in the sunlight two sparrows were
frivolously flirting. Even as she watched, the sparrows grew dim, her
ridiculously tiny purse slipped from her hand, her head with its thick
dark hair dropped against the pillar, and her lashes touched her cheek.
After awhile a cautious footfall sounded in the chapel, then somewhere a
heavy door closed, and all was still.

When Peggy sat up indignantly with the queer sensation that she had been
violently shaken, darkness surrounded her, a darkness so deep that she
could not see her hand as she ran it along the bench in front of her.
With the movement came remembrance of her surroundings, and also a
realization in strained and aching muscles that a stone pillar is not a
wise choice for a head-rest.

"Oh!" she gasped painfully.

"Don't be frightened," entreated a voice quite near to her, and out of
the lesser darkness a tall black figure rose suddenly.

"I am not at all frightened," said Peggy at once. In spite of the
bigness of the figure there was something reassuring in the voice with
its crisp, humorous note and its intonation that Peggy at once
recognized as American.

"What are you doing here?" she continued, inhospitably addressing the
darkness before her.

"I went to sleep" the voice explained, "on the other side of the
pillar."

"How silly!" said Peggy, severely, "didn't you see me here?"

"It was a little dim," the voice apologized and, Peggy's silence still
condemning, "you should have snored," it continued extenuatingly.

Peggy arose with a dignity that she hoped penetrated the darkness. Then
she groped along the bench.

"My purse," she explained anxiously, "and it had a sixpence for tea and
two shillings for tips," she continued with an unconscious epitome of
the joys of traveling. As she groped along bench and floor she was
conscious of assistance from her companion, and just as she grasped the
discovered purse she felt purse and hand