Doctor Brudenell had a busy day, a day so filled with work that, coming after his sleepless night, it exhausted him. It was later than usual when he reached home, to find his dinner spoiled and Mrs. Jessop's temper ruffled. So tired was he that, when the meal was over, he fell asleep in his chair, entirely forgetting for once his regular visit to Miss Boucheafen's sitting-room to bid the children good-night. But his thoughts were all of her; and he dreamed of her as he sat--dreamed that she was in some trouble, grief, danger, of which he did not know the nature, and was helpless to relieve. Vague as it was, the dream was to him dreadful, and the struggle that he made to find her, to save her, was so intense that he awoke--awoke to see her standing within a yard or two of his chair, a letter in her hand, the usual calmness of her face gone, her very lips unsteady. He started to his feet, and seized her hand--the dream still clung about him, and he did not realize her reality. Then he exclaimed, seeing the change in her: "Mademoiselle, what is it? What is the matter? You are in trouble." "Yes," she said faintly. She was trembling, and he gently induced her to sit in the chair from which he had risen. "Pray pardon me, sir," she said; "but I am troubled. I do not know what to do, and"--she faltered, glancing at him--"it seemed natural to come to you." Sensible, practical George Brudenell was far from sensible and practical when in the presence of those glorious eyes, which looked at him beseechingly. He did not know it; but he had entirely bidden adieu to common-sense where Alexia Boucheafen was concerned. He said gently: "What's the matter? Tell me? Am I to read this?" "If you will." She let him take the letter; and he saw that it was written in a boyish, wavering hand, and that it commenced affectionately with her name. It was short, for the signature, to which his eyes turned instinctively, was upon the same page, and was, "Your brother, Gustave Boucheafen." The Doctor repeated it aloud. "Your brother, Mademoiselle?" "You have heard me speak of my brother, sir?" "Certainly--yes! But I thought he was in Paris." "I thought so too. He was there three months ago, when I last heard from him. But the post he held was poor, miserable, he hated it; and he was threatening then to leave it and come to England, as I had one. He did so a month ago, and has found that the bad could be worse, for he writes that he is penniless, sir, and starving." "And he writes to you for help, poor child!" exclaimed the Doctor pityingly. "Yes. But, ah, sir, he is so young--a boy! He is two years younger than I am--only nineteen," Alexia urged deprecatingly. "And whom should he ask, poor Gustave? We have no other kin who care for us." "Where is your brother?" inquired the Doctor. "Close here, in London; but I forget the address." She pointed to the letter, which he still held. "Sir, if you read you will understand better far than I can explain."