lifetime, and which were over, with all the horrors that were in them, and done with, and never to be recalled again. He was still young, and yet how much older than any one was aware! Twenty-seven, yet with two lives behind him: one that of youth, to which he had endeavoured to piece his renewed existence; and the other all complete and ended, a tragedy, yet like many tragedies in life, cut off not by death. Not by death, for here were both the actors again within reach of each other,--one within the sleeping house, one outside in the fresh air of the morning,--with a gulf like that between Dives and Lazarus, a gulf which no man might cross, of disgust and loathing, of pain and hatred, between. The door in the wall opened stealthily, softly, and some one came out. It was so early that such precautions seemed scarcely necessary. Perhaps it was in fear of seeing him, though that was so unlikely, that Lizzie looked round so jealously. If so, her precautions were useless, as she stepped out immediately in front of the passenger whom she most desired to avoid. He did not speak to her for a moment, but walked on, quickening his pace as hers fluttered into a run, as if to escape him. "Stop," he said at length. "You need not take the trouble to conceal yourself from me." "I'm not concealing--anything," said Lizzie, half angry, half sullen, with a flush on her face. "I've done nothing wrong," she added quickly. "I don't say you've done anything wrong; for what I can tell you may be doing the work of an angel." She looked up at him eagerly, and the tears sprang to her eyes. "I don't know for that. I--I don't ask nothing but not to be blamed." "Lizzie," he said, "you were always a good girl--and to be faithful as you seem, may, for anything I know, be angels' work. I could not do it, for my part." "Oh no," she said, hurriedly. "It could not be looked for from you,--oh no, no!" "But think if you were to ruin yourself," he said. "The rector saw you the other day, but he will say nothing. Yet think if others saw you." "Sir," cried Lizzie, drawing back, "it will do me more harm and vex granny more to see a gentleman walking by my side and talking like that, as if he took an interest in me,--which you don't, all the same," she added, with a little bitterness, "only for--others." "I do," he cried, "if I could help you without harming you. But it is chiefly for the other. I want you to act for me, Lizzie. If trouble should come, as come, of course, it will----" "I am none so sure. You never saw her half so pretty--and he----" "Silence!" cried Dick, with a voice that was like the report of deep guns. "If trouble comes, let me know. She must not want or be miserable. There is my address. Do not apply to me unless there is absolute need; but if that comes, write, telegraph,--no matter which; help shall come."