a humane and gentle woman. Her husband
saw the well-filled purse with which Mr.
Tillotson's trembling fingers were busy, and so he
was taken in. He all but tottered to a great
white room, that seemed all plaster of Paris (it
was a new hotel, finished but six months ago),
and at last lay down upon a great bed, with
eyes that felt starting and staring up to meet
the white ceiling overhead, countless cog-
wheels went whirring and buzzing round in
his brain, and the drone of the night journey
was at his ear.

"Better try and get a good sleep, sir," said
the humane landlady, as she shut the door, "and
you'll be all right in an hour or so."

Try to sleep! Kind advice; but his eyes
seemed as tight and hard as steel. The good
landlady was below, taking thought with
herself how she should send up at the proper
time a "nice" hot breakfast, which the "poor
gentleman," who had something on his mind,
would enjoy with relish, after he had had his
sleep—say about twelve or one o'clock. But
the "poor gentleman" was still on his back,
with steel bands tightening across his chest,
with strong wakeful eyes, and he would leap up
and rush to the window at the sound of every
cab or carriage. Thus the minutes and the
half-hours were slipping away. At last he
could endure it no longer, and, hardly able to
lift his head, he went down. The humane lady
protested against his going out, not at least
until he had had something warm; but he
would not wait, and went forth.

It was a bright, sunny, almost gay day, and
everything looked cheerful. The streets were
crowded; many passed by him as he stood on
the steps, all busy—some serious, many laughing:
a husband and wife—young, whispering
and enjoying some secret joke; a father and
daughter; a business man smiling to himself.

He wandered on listlessly. He got out of
the busier streets, and saw the sun glistening on
the water. He was close to the Docks; and
here were the solid masses of granite and heavy
gates, and heavier waggons rolling slowly
through the heavy gates behind a string of
monster horses, and past men with golden
legends on shining glazed hats. Over the
great walls that joined the heavy gates he
could see the great thick plantations of masts,
crowded like a jungle. The sun was strong,
and beat down on his forehead, and at
moments he felt as if he could have sunk down
there on the pavement; but a curious instinct
carried him on. Fortunately it was so, for
as he waited at a crossing with his head swimming
round, and almost inclined to catch at the
lamp-post, a cab came round the corner and
swept past him, in the window of which was
the devotional face that he knew—ah, too well!
—in and out of his dreams, and the sun glinted
with a flash on the masses of saffron hair that
for him had so long proved a sanctified colour.

This vision gave him back strength. He was
not too late. She might be saved yet—for
herself, but not for him—and in a moment, with
the strength of a strong man, he had called
another cab, had got in, and was following
her.

She had not seen him—perhaps if she had,
would scarcely have recognised him. They went
on, gradually leaving the open crowded streets
of the seaport town, until they came to the
narrower and dark quarters—the one cab following
at a distance—until at last they came close to
another dock, and the first cab drew up at a
second-class plaster-fronted hotel, called the
Angel.

Mr. Tillotson stopped at a distance: saw a
golden flash as she got down and went in. Then,
after a pause, got out himself and went in too.

He said he wished to see the lady who had
just entered. There were no questions asked.
They only said she was just going away, and
that they were "making out hers and the
gentleman's bill." He went up with his hand on
his heart, opened the door softly, and there saw
her, with her bonnet still on, her face bent
forward on the table and covered by her hands.
She was weeping, and did not hear or see.

This sight brought fury and strength back to
the husband's weary frame. He walked up
straight to her and laid his hand on her wrist.
She looked up, gave a cry, and started, shrank
back from him to the sofa. He stood looking
at her a moment, then spoke:

"I have found you—you may thank Heaven
—and have saved you from disgrace in spite of
yourself. Come out of this place; we must not
stay here longer—not a moment—not a second.
Come! Quick!—so long as I have strength to
move."

Part of her start had indeed been at his
changed and shrunken face. Ten years seemed
to have come upon him since yesterday. His
was more the face of a dying than a living
man. She had scarcely heard what he had said,
or gathered its import, she was so shocked and
scared. She ran to him:

"O," she said, "what does this mean? You
are ill. "What has done all this?"

"What has done this?" he said, motioning
her back. "You, you cruel, heartless, wicked
woman!—you cold woman—whom I now see
in her true colours. God forgive you. Thank
Him that you have escaped public disgrace
for your guilt!"

She understood it all at once, and drew
herself up.

"Disgrace! crime! Do you seriously say
this?"

"Injured, of course!" he said, smiling
bitterly. "The day is over for that to have effect.
The farce has ended. Come; come away with me
now to London. After to-morrow you are free.
But comfort yourself with this—that you are
saved now; and that, for the time, the disgrace
you would have brought on yourself and on
me is averted. Come!"

The scorn—the sense of injustice—the sheer
amazement—that was filling her, overpowered
every other thought.

"And you speak in this way; you can slander