“Why, jump in!” said the young lady heartily. “We are going the same way; and I’m sure Mrs. Rollins would be delighted to have you. _She_’s at the Woman’s Branch.” “The Woman’s who?” asked Bayard, laughing for the first time for many days. He had hesitated for a moment; then stepped into the carriage, and shut the door. “I presume you’ve been in this vehicle before?” began Miss Carruth. He nodded, smiling still. “At intervals, as far back as I can remember. Miss Clara and I used to go to the same dancing-school.” “Mrs. Rollins was saying only yesterday what an age it was since they had seen you--Mr. Bayard!” she broke off, “you look ill. You are ill.” He had sunk back upon the olive satin cushions. The familiar sense of luxury and ease came upon him like a wave of mortal weakness. For a moment he did not trust himself to look at the girl beside him. Her beauty, her gayety, her health, her freedom from care, something even in her personal elegance overcame him. She seemed to whirl before his eyes, the laughing figure of a happy Fortune, the dainty symbol of the life that he had left and lost. The deliberate coachman was now driving rapidly, and they were well on their way over Beacon Hill. She gave Bayard one of her long, steady looks. Something of timidity stole over her vivacious face. “Mr. Bayard,” she said in a changed tone, “I have heard all about it from my father. I wanted to tell you, but I had no way. I am glad to have a chance to say--I am sorry for you with all my heart. And with all my soul, I honor you.” “Do you?” said the disheartened man. “Then I honor myself the more.” He turned now, and looked at her gratefully. This first drop of human sympathy from man or woman of his own kind was inexpressibly sweet to him. He could have raised her hand to his lips. But they were in Mrs. Rollins’s carriage, and on Beacon Street. “Oh!” cried Helen suddenly. “Look there! No, _there_! See that poor, _horrible_ fellow! Why, he’s arrested! The policemen are carrying him off.” They had now reached Tremont Street, where the young lady had an errand which had decided her direction to the northern stations. But for the trifling circumstance that Helen Carruth had promised her mother to bring out from a famous Boston grocer’s that particular brand of olive oil which alone was worthy of a salad for the Trustees’ lunch, the event which followed would never have occurred. Thus may the worry of a too excellent housekeeper lay its petty finger upon the future of a man or of an enterprise. Bayard looked out of the carriage window, and uttered a disturbed exclamation. Struggling in the iron grip of two policemen of assorted sizes, the form and the tongue of Job Slip were forcibly ornamenting Tremont Row. “I must go. I must leave you. Excuse me. Drive on without me, Miss Carruth. That is a friend of mine in trouble there.” Bayard stopped the coachman with an imperious tap, and a “Hold on, John!” “A _what_ of yours?” cried Helen.