opinion. Now Mr. David, you
must go to bed!"

He rose obediently--but trembled as he rose, and could scarcely stand
from sheer weakness. Mary Deane put her arm through his to support him.

"I'm afraid,"--he faltered--"I'm afraid I shall be a burden to you! I
don't think I shall be well enough to start again on my way to-morrow."

"You won't be allowed to do any such foolish thing!" she answered, with
quick decision--"So you can just make up your mind on _that_ score! You
must stay here as my guest."

"Not a paying one, I fear!" he said, with a pained smile, and a quick
glance at her.

She gave a slight gesture of gentle reproach.

"I wouldn't have you on paying terms,"--she answered; "I don't take in
lodgers."

"But--but--how do you live?"

He put the question hesitatingly, yet with keen curiosity.

"How do I live? You mean how do I work for a living? I am a lace mender,
and a bit of a laundress too. I wash fine muslin gowns, and mend and
clean valuable old lace. It's pretty work and pleasant enough in its
way."

"Does it pay you well?"

"Oh, quite sufficiently for all my needs. I don't cost much to keep!"
And she laughed--"I'm all by myself, and I was never money-hungry! Now
come!--you mustn't talk any more. You know who I am and what I am,--and
we'll have a good long chat to-morrow. It's bed-time!"

She led him, as though he were a child, into a little room,--one of the
quaintest and prettiest he had ever seen,--with a sloping raftered
ceiling, and one rather wide latticed window set in a deep embrasure and
curtained with spotless white dimity. Here there was a plain
old-fashioned oak bedstead, trimmed with the same white hangings, the
bed itself being covered with a neat quilt of diamond-patterned silk
patchwork. Everything was delicately clean, and fragrant with the odour
of dried rose-leaves and lavender,--and it was with all the zealous care
of an anxious housewife that Mary Deane assured her "guest" that the
sheets were well-aired, and that there was not "a speck of damp"
anywhere. A kind of instinct told him that this dainty little sleeping
chamber, so fresh and pure, with not even a picture on its white-washed
walls, and only a plain wooden cross hung up just opposite to the bed,
must be Mary's own room, and he looked at her questioningly.

"Where do you sleep yourself?" he asked.

"Upstairs,"--she answered, at once--"Just above you. This is a
two-storied cottage--quite large really! I have a