DEAR MR. BAYARD,--I have been thinking since I saw you. I have health, and a summer. What can I do to help your work? I haven’t a particle of experience, and not much enthusiasm. But I am ready to try, if you are willing to try me. I don’t think I’m adapted to drunkards. I don’t know which of us would be more scared. He would probably run for the nearest grogshop to get rid of me. Aren’t there some old ladies who bother you to death, whom you could turn over to me? Yours sincerely, HELEN CARRUTH. This characteristic note, the first that he had ever received from her, reached Bayard by mail, a few days after his call at the cottage of the Flying Jib. He sat down and wrote at once:-- MY DEAR MISS CARRUTH,--There is an old lady. She doesn’t bother me at all, but I am at my wits’ end with her. She runs away from the institution where she belongs, and there’s no other place for her. At present she is inflicting herself on Mrs. Job Slip, No. 143 Thoroughfare Street, opposite the head of Angel Alley. Her mind is thought to be slightly disordered by the loss of her son, drowned last winter in the wreck of the Clara Em. Mrs. Slip will explain the circumstances to you more fully. Inquire for Johnny’s mother. If the old woman ever had any other name, people have forgotten it, now. I write in great haste and stress of care. It will not be necessary to traverse Angel Alley to reach this address, which is quite in the heart of the town, and perfectly safe and suitable for you. I thank you very much. Yours sincerely, EMANUEL BAYARD. Helen frowned a little when she read this. No Bishop of a diocese, dictating the career of a deaconess, no village rector, guiding some anxious and aimless visiting young lady through the mild dissipations of parish benevolence, could have returned a more business-like, calm, even curt, reply. The position of a man who may not love a woman and must not invite her to marry him--or, to put it a little differently, who must not love and cannot marry--is one which it seems to be asking too much of women to understand. At all events they seldom or never do. The withdrawals, the feints, the veils and chills and silences, by which a woman in a similar position protects herself, may be as transparent as golden mist to him whom she evades; but the sturdy retreat of a masculine conscience from a too tender or too tempting situation is as opaque as a gravestone to the feminine perception.