the husband to whom she had given herself in purity of heart. But there had been the intimacy of minds that think alike, of hearts moved by the same emotions of pity and love, the same religious fervour, the same self-surrender for the service of Christ.

She had talked to him even of her dead child, that sacred theme which she could not speak of without tears. She had told him of her hopes and visions of the future while that child was with her; how she had pictured his lifethe Christian life, the life that was to be a light in the darkness of the helpless and unfortunate. She talked of her child in the after-life, and loved to dwell upon the blessedness of the saints with God, with an implicit faith in the unseen.

"I do wrong to grieve for my son, knowing that I shall go to him in the new life," she said.

They had been in such perfect sympathy, a friendship so exalted, so free from guile. And this pure affection, held in check on his part with such undeviating self-control, had not escaped malignant remark. And then, awakened by that revelation of the world's malevolence, there came the thought of possible peril, peril to two souls now white and stainless, but which one impassioned moment, one lapse of self-mastery, might taint with at least the suggestion of sin. So far, he had never transgressed, never passed the limits of a friendship such as obtained among the brothers and sisters of the Early Church, when Christians heard the near echo of the Master's voice, and thought and talked of their Lord as of One who was with them yesterday. But could he be sure of himself to the end? Could he see her day after day in a growing intimacy, upon which her own purity of heart placed no restrictions, and trust himself never to betray the secret of a sinful love, a love that was an offence against her purity, however he might control all outward signs of the fire that burnt within ?

"The worldling's voice is the voice of wisdom," he thought, slowly pacing to and fro in the summer darkness. "I have been playing with fire. How could I ever forgive myself if I let her guess my secret-if I startled that exquisite innocence which fears no evil with the revelation of a passionate love? It has been a lovely dream; but it is

.over.

Neither her good name nor her peace of mind shall suffer by my wrong-doing."

For the three following days St. Just was absorbed in business details. He spent most of his time in Portland Place, where he had appointments with the men with whom he worked, his equals, or his subordinates, enthusiasts like himself, his friends and his disciples, and his paid helpers. He contrived to see them all, and to go into the particulars of every good work to which he had put his hand. He pledged his income to the uttermost in his contributions to the financial support of these home missions, which in the far-off golden age were to make the wilderness of pauper life in London blossom as the rose; and which had already reclaimed many pestilential swamps, and exterminated many poisonous weeds.

His friends were distressed at the idea of having to carry on their work without their leader.

"You are the moving spirit of everything, St. Just," said one of his Oxford chums; the only one of us who won't see failure, and whose pluck has never failed when the whole business seemed a hopeless muddle. I suppose it's some blessed alarmist in Harley Street who is sending you away. The modern doctor's favourite fad is the idea that an Englishman can't live in England?

"No; I haven't asked the doctors. I know that I am not in good health, without their opinion. I have bought a twohundred-ton yacht. She is at Marseilles, where I shall join her next week, and start on a vagabond voyage."

"Shall you go far?"

"Who knows? I said a vagabond voyage. If I don't find the Mediterranean good enough, I shall slip through the Suez and steer my course to the South Seas."

Poor fellow!" his friends said, as they left his house. Lungs, of course," said one. "I shall be at Charing Cross on Saturday night, for a farewell hand-shake. Who knows if we shall ever see him again?"

"I shouldn't like to bet even money on his return," said another. "He looks awfully ill."

"The old story of the sword and the scabbard.

This one is a fiery sword in an ivory scabbard. Knowing the work he has done since he left Oxford, I wonder he is alive!"

XVIII.

RACHEL was surprised at not having seen St. Just during those three days, for within the last half-year a day had rarely passed without their meeting, either in some scene of her daily work, at Mrs. Bellingham's house, or in her own drawing-room. She missed him sadly before the third day of his absence came to an end. Since her husband's isolation, she had come to depend upon St. Just's judgment on all doubtful questions, most of all as to the manner in which the innumerable appeals to her benevolence should be answered. St. Just was a shrewd judge of human nature, and rarely failed in his diagnosis. The professional beggingletter writer had a poor chance with him; and he was a shrewd judge of the worthiness or unworthiness of the amateur who has but lately begun to depend upon a facile pen and a penny stamp for increased income.

Rachel was sitting in the lamplight after dinner, with a pile of unanswered letters before her, on the third evening of St. Just's absence, when the servant announced him.

"I am so glad you have come," she said, going to meet him with outstretched hand. "I have been wanting your advice about so many of these letters-such piteous lettersfrom impostors perhaps-but they make one's heart ache all the same."

"The more heart-rending the letter, the more need of verification. Indeed, Mrs. Arden, in your place I should be adamant to all letter-writers, and give all your help to those you know, face to face, in their own homes-whose characters, surroundings, necessities, you know at first hand. Even your resources have their limits. If you give all to those you know, you may forgive yourself for refusing those you don't know. Whatever their sphere, they too must

have their helpers. There are good Samaritans upon every road nowadays."

"I know you are right; but these letters torture one, all the same."

"Oh, there must always be that kind of torture for sensitive minds, while the differences of fortune are as they are. There is the torture of seeing an overworked horse in a cart, the thought of the inequality in the fortunes of horses the underfed cab-horse in the pelting rain, crawling along the streets at midnight, and the sleek carriage-horses dozing in their warm stable. You will have to harden your heart, my dear Mrs. Arden, to make up your mind that even all you do is but as a drop of sweetness in a sea of bitter waters."

Rachel looked at him wonderingly. There was something in his tone that was new to her an indefinable difference.

"What have you been doing in the last three days?" she asked. "You are looking pale and over-tired."

"I have been working very hard. I have been setting my house in order."

"But I thought your house was always in order. Every one says you are such a wonderful man of business."

"I have been setting my house in order before leaving England. The fact is, I find myself out of health; I want change of scene and atmosphere. It is a want all workers feel at some time in their lives; and I am going to give myself rest before I break down.'

"That is very wise of you," she answered gravely; and the look of sorrow in her face sent a thrill through his overstrained nerves. "I shall miss you dreadfully in all our work-and-and in so many ways; but I am glad you are taking the first warning. Do you mean to be away long?" "Till I am cured," he answered, with a faint, sad smile. She would never know the malady which had need of cure, or how slow the healing process was likely to be. "And are you going far?

He told her how he had bought a friend's steam-yacht, a nearly new boat, by one of the best builders on the Clyde. "Won't it be too hot in the Mediterranean in summer?" Oh, I can bask; I shall have rest, which I suppose will

be all I want. And in October or November I shall make for the South Seas."

"Like Stevenson ?"

"Stevenson's book has inspired me with a longing for the islands he loved."

"Perhaps you will be like him, and settle there for life."

"No, no; I don't contemplate such a possibility. I should always be thinking of what could be done in fifty years of Europe. A man would need the genius and the imagination of a Stevenson to find happiness in that primitive life."

"But in any case you will be away for years-for many years, perhaps."

"No, no; I hope my cure will not be so slow. A year or two should be enough. Two years would be a long exile from friends-like you!"

Her voice had been faintly tremulous, but his was steady. He had nerved himself for this farewell interview as a man nerves himself for a surgical operation; and in this case there could be no anesthetic, he must needs feel all the pain, and all the peril of self-betrayal.

"You say that you are out of health," Rachel said, after a pause. "I hope there is nothing serious the matter-nothing that need make your friends anxious about you."

"Oh no, there is nothing serious. I am not ordered away by the doctors. My going is a precautionary step."

"I am glad of that. I shall miss you sadly. You have been so kind, and I have come to rely on your help so much-since-since my husband has taken less interest in my work."

"His interest may be revived, if you tell him you have need of his help. You must try to win him back into the old paths."

"Oh, if I only could! He began by being so warmly interested, so helpful for all those poor people; but now he has ceased to care for them. I know he is unhappy, but I can find no reason for his trouble. He has a worried, haunted look, that grieves me more than I can say, and I can do nothing to brighten his life. I know nothing of the shadow that darkens it. Something-something I cannot understand has come between us and made us almost