ly plain as well as
unattractive. There were some in the gallery who said among themselves
that, as Mr. Lindall had waited so many years before talking to any one,
he might have chosen some one better worth the waiting for! But they
soon became accustomed to seeing Helen Stanley and Mr. Lindall together,
and they laughed less than before; and meanwhile the acquaintance
ripened into a sort of friendship, half sulky on his part and wholly
kind on her part. He told her nothing about himself, and he asked
nothing about herself; for weeks he never even knew her name. Sometimes
he did not speak at all, and the two friends would work silently side
by side until it was time to go; and then he waited until she was ready,
and walked with her across Trafalgar Square, where they parted and went
their own ways.

But occasionally, when she least expected it, he would speak with
glowing enthusiasm on art; then his eyes seemed to become bright, and
his bent figure more erect, and his whole bearing proud and dignified.
There were times, too, when he would speak on other subjects: on the
morality of free thought--on Bruno, of blessed memory, on him, and
scores of others too. He would speak of the different schools of
philosophy; he would laugh at himself, and at all who, having given time
and thought to the study of life's complicated problems, had not reached
one step further than the Old-World thinkers. Perhaps he would quote one
of his favourite philosophers, and then suddenly relapse into silence,
returning to his wonted abstraction and to his indifference to his
surroundings. Helen Stanley had learned to understand his ways and to
appreciate his mind, and, without intruding on him in any manner, had
put herself gently into his life as his quiet champion and his friend.
No one in her presence dared speak slightingly of the old man, or to
make fun of his tumble-down appearance, or of his worn-out silk hat with
a crack in the side, or of his rag of a black tie, which, together with
his overcoat, had "seen better days." Once she brought her needle and
thread, and darned the torn sleeve during her lunch-time; and, though he
never knew it, it was a satisfaction to her to have helped him.

To-day she noticed that he was painting badly, and that he seemed
to take no interest in his work; but she went on busily with her own
picture, and was so engrossed in it that she did not at first observe
that he had packed up his brushes and was prepar