On the afternoon appointed, Thursday, Alice went to take up her abode at Mrs. Preen's, accompanied, as before, by Edina. Poverty makes us acquainted with habits before unknown, and necessity, it is said, is a hard taskmaster; nevertheless, it was deemed well that Alice should not walk alone in the streets of London. Edina left her in safety, and saw for a moment her pupils--two nice little girls of eight and ten years old. Alice was taking off her bonnet in the chamber assigned her when Mrs. Preen entered it. "We shall have a few friends with us this evening, Miss Raynor," she said. "It may give you a little pleasure to come to the drawing-room and join them." "Oh, thank you," said Alice, her face beaming at the unexpected, and, with her, very rare treat. "If I can--if my boxes arrive. They were sent off this morning by the carrier." The boxes arrived. Poor Alice might have looked almost as well had they been delayed, for her one best dress was an old black silk. Prettily made for evening wear, it is true; but its white lace and ribbon trimmings could not conceal the fact that the silk itself was worn and shabby. The few friends consisted of at least thirty people, most of them in gay evening dress. Mrs. Preen introduced her to a young lady, a Miss Knox, who was chatty and pleasant, and told her many of the names of those present. But after a while Miss Knox went away into the next room, leaving Alice alone. She felt something like a fish out of water. Other people moved about here and there talking with this acquaintance and laughing with that; but Alice, conscious of being only the governess, did not like to do so. She was standing near one of the open windows, within shade of the curtains that were being swayed about by the draught, turning her gaze sometimes upon the rooms, sometimes to the road below. Suddenly, her whole conscious being seemed struck as by a blow. Her pulses stopped, her heart felt faint, every vestige of colour forsook her cheeks. Walking slowly across the room, within a yard of her, came William Stane. Not until he was close up did he see her standing there. A moment's hesitation, during which he seemed to be as surprised as she, and then he held out his hand. "It is Miss Raynor, I think?" "Yes," replied Alice, her hand meeting his, and the hot crimson flushing her cheek again. How well he was looking! Better, far better looking than he used to be. And he was of more importance in the world, for he had risen into note as a pleader, young at the Bar though he was, and his name was often on the lips of men. His presence brought back to Alice the old Elysian days at Eagles' Nest, and her heart ached. "Are Sir Philip and Lady Stane quite well?" she asked, in sheer need of saying something; for the silence was embarrassing. "My mother is well; my father is very poorly indeed. He is a confirmed invalid now."