heartily with his wish; told him all
that brought me here, and the business I
was about, He listened attentively. Then
we wandered back, step by step, slowly and
agreeably too, till we got to the old, old
days, where we called up all those scenes,
—Dora, the military balls, the pleasant
nights, and pleasant days; what seemed like
pictures or scenes out of a beautiful play
seen in childhood—misty, indistinct, but
delightful to think over. He spoke charmingly,
regretfully, and even tenderly.

"Those were happy and innocent days,"
he said. " Scarcely happy after all for me,
though there is a sort of happiness in such
suffering. Yet compared with all I have
gone through since——! Still in this life,"
he added, nodding at the cave behind us,
"there is an excitement, too—it helps one
to forget."

"But think, how will it end?" I said, with
some excitement. " It cannot have the
slow progress of what you call a life. It
must hurry on suddenly to destruction.
Oh, Grainger, stop, I implore of you, before
it be too late!"

"But if it be too late," he said, " and
was too late years ago? But I don't know
if I saw any road.—it is all a jungle, or my
eyes have got dim. Still, since you have
talked to me, and brought before me those
days, I don't feel quite so bad. We will
speak of those things again—her name to
me may have some power, at least, and if
you will not think it a trouble or a bore
while you are here——"

I wrung his hand warmly. " I would
take it as a favour," I said; " oh, let me
help you in some way, and if I have injured
you, let me at least try and keep you
from this life, which must end in misery
and ruin."

"Well, we shall see," he said.

Two people came out of the cave a
little hurriedly. It was the youthful husband
walking first, by himself, his hands in
his pockets, his face flushed. She was tripping
behind him, with the most dismal depicted
expression on her face. In a moment
that small hand, it had a tiny black mitten
on, was on his arm. It seemed to receive
an impatient welcome there, and dropped
again.

Grainger followed my eyes, " Ah!" he
said, " the old story!"

Hers met mine, and they seemed to say,
"Oh, how right you were;" I knew I was
—an instinct told me I should be so. After
all, bred in a country town, as I was, my
dear Dora, I have learnt to judge a little
of human nature. It comes by a sort of
instinct. I wish I had been wrong in this
mistake; but the same instinct whispers to
me that this is but the end of the first act.
Poor little pair!

"That was the way it was with me at
first," said Grainger; "I know that story
pretty well. I have seen it here over and
over again. Will you come in with me
and see me try my hand—a new face brings
new luck. And yet to-night it seems to
jar upon me—you have brought me back
into the old days. But still what can I
do. As well tell a man who has sold himself
to brandy, not to drink. Besides,
what would be the use? I may as well
finish, as I have begun. I have nothing to
look to now."

"I cannot tell you how this pains me,
Grainger," I said, really distressed. "O,
if my words could but have some little
effect! Do—as you say the holy influence
of the past is upon you—just for this night
abstain. Even for Dora's sake, whom you
once so loved, and who would rejoice to
know that her name even had that little
power left. If you knew its effect on me!"

A very curious look came into his face.
He turned it off with a laugh. " Well, a
night doesn't make much difference. I'm
a fool, I know. There, we'll walk about
instead."

I felt almost a thrill of pleasure at this
unexpected success. My pet's name is,
indeed, an amulet to conjure with. After
so many years, and at so many hundred
miles distance, to have such a power! And
I think I may fairly claim a small share of
the credit. Earnestness and sincerity go
some way: perhaps, too, that little magnanimity.
There was some little tact in
my reception of him; others might have
grown confused or angry. Here am I
praising myself; but I am in such good
spirits. Put up your gentle prayer for
him, Dora.

Wednesday.—I found Grainger last night
really entertaining and amusing. Hitherto
a good many of the people here have been
like the figures in front of the old grinding
organs, revolving, and glittering, and eccentric
to look at, but still without names
or characters. Grainger knows them all,
names, dates, and addresses. There was
the great banker, there was the great speculator,
the man who could change paper
into gold by a touch, by a word even, and
who was now wandering about here, as
poor as I or my companion. Did I see
that ascetical-looking-man? that was the
Bishop of Gravesend; or that woman in
orange and black, the famous Phryne