"Then you must manage to have my name changed, at all hazards. My old employer would use every means to annoy me if he discovered where I am going." "It is only recorded as 'Miss M. May,'" I said. "Surely there is more than one person of that name in the world." She shook her head and bit her lips in distress. "It must be changed," she repeated. "It will not do to give him the slightest clue. He imagines himself 'in love'--Heaven help me!--and I dare not risk it. Any name you like, but my own." "What can he do?" I inquired. "You don't think I would let him annoy you, when you were under my protection." "He can do many things. No, there is no way but to alter the name. Tell the agent the lady you expected is not going--that she has been taken ill--and that another is to fill her place. Do not argue, do not hesitate, or I shall be compelled, even now, to give up the journey. And that," she added, seeing my sober face, "you know well I would not like to do." This was enough to settle the matter and I said I would give the agent in the morning any name she desired. "I would like it the same as your own," she said, thoughtfully. "It might save infinite trouble. Just record me as Miss M. Camwell. Is there any reason against that?" Yes, there was one and it occurred to me. The name, which I had decided to use, was so near my own that Uncle Dugald would be likely to see it, not to say anything about Hume, Tom Barton and Statia. They might lay the twisting of Donald Camran into "David Camwell" to the carelessness of copyist and printer, but their suspicions would certainly be aroused if they saw next to my name that of a "Miss" Camwell. "I will change your name in some way," I answered, after a long pause, "but I see dangers in the plan you propose, nearly as great as in the present one." I then gave her an inkling of my fears, saying I did not wish any sharp friend to guess what I was doing, which was possible with two such uncommon names in just a position on an alphabetical list. She did not seem satisfied, but raised no objection when I asked her if I might call her Miss M. Carney, which I thereupon decided to do. It was rather dull, take it altogether, the dinner, but when we were again in a cab and rolling toward Forty-fifth Street, Miss May brightened, like the close of a cloudy day, just before the sun sinks into the obscurity of the western sky. She put one of her hands on mine, quite as if the act was a wholly thoughtless one, but it sufficed to cheer me up. She even volunteered a prophesy that we would be good friends and contented fellow voyagers. Before we reached her door she asked me at what hour I would call on the morrow, quite as if anxious to see me. After a little debate I decided upon three in the afternoon. That would give her the entire morning with her dressmaker, for necessary alterations in the garments she had purchased.