lit up her face and gently
caressed her soft brown hair; slight though her form, sombre her
clothes, and unlovely her features, she seemed a gracious presence
because of her earnestness.

"Now," she said, cheerily, "you rest here until I come back with your
Lucretius, and then I think I must be getting on my way home. But
you must fix a time for our first Greek lesson, for we must begin
to-morrow."

When she had gone he walked in the cloisters, holding his hat in his
hand and his stick under his arm. There was a quiet smile on his face,
which was called forth by pleasant thoughts in his mind, and he did not
look quite so shrunken and shrivelled as usual. His eyes were fixed on
the ground, but he raised them, and observed a white cat creeping toward
him. It came and rubbed itself against his foot, and, purring with all
its might, seemed determined to win some kind of notice from him. The
old man stooped down to stroke it, and was just touching its sleek coat
when he suddenly withdrew his hand and groaned deeply. He struggled to
the recess, and sank back. The stick fell on the stone with a clatter,
and the battered hat rolled down beside it, and the white cat fled away
in terror; but realising that there was no cause for alarm, it came
back and crouched near the silent figure of the old man, watching him
intently. Then it stretched out its paw and played with his hand, doing
its utmost to coax him into a little fun; but he would not be coaxed,
and the cat lost all patience with him, and left him to himself.

Meanwhile Helen Stanley was looking for the lost Lucretius in the Poets'
Corner. She found it laying near Chaucer's tomb, and was just going to
take it to her friend when she saw the workman to whom they had spoken
in Trafalgar Square. He recognised her at once, and came toward her.

"I've been having a quiet half-hour here," he said. "It does me a sight
of good to sit in the abbey."

"You should go into the cloisters," she said, kindly. "I have been
sitting there with my friend. He will be interested to hear that you
love this beautiful abbey."

"I should like to see him again," said the workman. "He had a kind way
about him, and that pipe he gave me is an uncommon good one. Still, I am
sorry I smashed the little clay pipe. I'd grown used to it. I'd smoked
it ever since my little girl died and left me alone in the world. I used
to bring my little girl here, and now I come alone. But it isn't the
same thing.