If he was not quite so wise as the Frenchman, having had no _bonnes fortunes_ to speak of, he had, nevertheless, keen perceptions. And he guessed that the girl, between her maiden shyness and her womanly gratitude, was painfully placed. It could not be otherwise. A girl who had spent her years, since childhood, within the walls of a school at Clapham, first as genteel apprentice, and then as assistant; who had been taught to consider young men as roaring lions with whom her own life could have nothing in common, and from whom it was her duty to guard the more giddy of her flock; who had to struggle at once with the shyness of youth, the modesty of her sex, and her inexperience—above all, perhaps with that dread of insult which becomes the instinct of lowly beauty—how was she to carry herself in circumstances so different from any which she had ever imagined? How was she to express a tithe of the feelings with which her heart was bursting, and which overwhelmed her as often as she thought of the hideous death from which he had snatched her? She could not; and with inborn good taste she refrained from the commonplace word, the bald acknowledgment, in which a shallow nature might have taken refuge. On his side, he guessed some part of this, and discerned that if he would relieve her he must himself speak. Accordingly, when they had left the streets behind them and were swinging merrily along the Newbury Road, he leant towards her. “May I beg,” he said in a low voice, “that you won’t think of what has happened? The coachman would have done as much, and scolded you! I happened to be next you. That was all.” In a strangled voice, “But your hand,” she faltered. “I fear—I——” She shuddered, unable to go on. “It is nothing!” he protested. “Nothing! In three days it will be well!” She turned her eves on him, eyes which possessed an eloquence of which their owner was unconscious. “I will pray for you,” she murmured. “I can do no more.” The pathos of her simple gratitude was such that Vaughan could not laugh it off. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “We shall then be more than quits.” And having given her a few moments in which to recover herself, “We are nearly at Speenhamland,” he resumed cheerfully. “There is the George and Pelican! It’s a great baiting-house for coaches. I am afraid to say how much corn and hay they give out in a day. They have a man who does nothing else but weigh it out.” And so he chattered on, doing his utmost to talk of indifferent matters in an indifferent tone. She could not repulse him after what had passed. And now and then, by a timid word, she gave him leave to talk. Presently he began to speak of things other than those under their eyes, and when he thought that he had put her at her ease, “You understand French?” he said looking at her suddenly. “I spoke it as a child,” she answered. “I was born abroad. I did not come to England until I was nine.” “To Clapham?” “Yes. I have been employed in a school there.”