Frank Maynard found the shop of Stephen Walker without much difficulty. The solitary candle burnt on the counter, but no one was in the shop. However, on hearing the door open, Carry came out of the back room, where she had been sitting reading, bringing another lighted candle in her hand. Frank, who had fully expected to see an elderly man make his appearance, was not a little surprised at seeing such a remarkably pretty girl come out. He asked for some tobacco, which Carry, who had noticed at the first glance that he was not a regular customer, gave him in silence; for, indeed, at the moment he entered, she had been engaged in a most interesting chapter of her book, and she was longing to get back to it again. “Have you any good cigars?” Frank asked. Almost mechanically she drew back the glasses from above the cigars upon the counter. Frank glanced at them. “No, thank you,” he said. “I mean, have you any really good ones?” Carry looked fairly up at Frank for the first time. “Come, now,” he urged, “I have no doubt but that you have a box of good ones which you keep for your favoured customers.” Carry smiled, and brought out the box which was usually reserved for Fred Bingham’s smoking. “I believe these are good, sir.” “Yes,” Frank said, examining them, “these look the right thing, I will take half a dozen.” Now Frank had entered the shop with his mind perfectly made up, that unless he was recognised, he should go out again without saying who he was; but Carry looked so very pretty and bright, that he thought it would be very pleasant to sit down and have a chat with her, and to do so there was no other way than to say who he was. So he began,— “Mr. Walker—your father I presume—has he quite recovered from the fright and the shock he got the other day?” The bright eyes glanced up inquiringly at him now, and a flash of eager colour came across her face. “How did you know my father was hurt, sir?” “I saw him fall,” Frank said; “indeed I was fortunately close to him at the time, and helped him to pick himself up.” “Did you indeed, sir?” Carry asked earnestly, “and was it you really who saved his life?” “I do not know that I actually saved his life,” Frank said, smiling, “but I certainly helped him up.” “Father! father!” Carry cried, flying into the next room and calling up the stairs. “Come down, come down at once; here is the gentleman who saved your life.” Then she rushed back into the shop, but this time to the same side of the counter as that on which Frank was standing, seized his hand in hers, and looked up into his face with those large eyes of hers. “Oh, I am so glad you have come, I wanted so much to thank you; so, so much. Father has told me all about it, and I know that I owe his life to you.” “Don’t say anything more about it,” Frank said; “I saved your father’s life by the simple accident that I happened to be close to him when he fell, and fortunately having my wits about me, picked him up in time.”