“You can have it, certain!” he had a foolish lump in his throat as he stuffed the thick, unappetizing stuff into her hand. And he turned away as he saw how she tore at it with sharp white teeth like a dog’s. But she only ate a mouthful or two. The lamplighter took a seat on the locker and stared at her. “Come now, missus,” he said, not unkindly, “let us know what brought you here. You can’t stay here till you die--like this!” “Where can I go? No one wants me.” “Go back to your friends, lass!” “I haven’t any, I haven’t any money, either, and it was cold and rainy, so I came in here. I’ve been ill, I think. It seems a long time.” “By gum!” the lamplighter was nonplused. “Why didn’t you beg? Have you had anything to eat?” sharply. “I hate people, and they hate me. No one would give me anything. I went out in the nights and got water at a brook over there, and I found some bread one evening.” She did not say it was crusts a dog had despised. “How long have you been like this?” he gasped. “I don’t know. More than a week. I’ve been ill, I----” Her head fell forward with a stifled groan. “You’re sick, now, my lass!” he said pitifully. “Come, your way’s with me, and I’ll take you----” He stopped; he dared not take her to Margery, and the only other place was the workhouse. “I won’t go to a convent,” she muttered, “I won’t!” “It’s not a convent,” he said, puzzled. “Just a--well, there!--it’s hell on earth to my mind, but it’s better than this,” he broke out roughly, for the strange girl could not hear him; she was in a dead faint at his feet. Staggering, sweating, Davids managed to carry her up the companionway to the deck that was keeled over at such an angle that, burden and all, he nearly slipped through the broken bulwarks to the stony beach. But he clawed and staggered valiantly, till he had laid the girl, who to his mind was dying, safely on the ground. Then he gazed about him. What was to be done next? “There ain’t no choice as I can see,” remarked the bewildered Samaritan. “Though she’s gey and heavy for such a bag of bones.” He shouldered her like a sack of potatoes, fearful that she might die on his hands. “Here goes, and prays I that Margery don’t hear of it!” he muttered, and with toil and cursing, gained the highway, a ludicrous figure in the light of the November moon. His only thought was by what byway he could come at the workhouse, and as he puzzled at it he ran into a tall man in an Inverness cape who was coming from the opposite direction. “What the devil!” cried the latter furiously. “Why don’t you look where you’re going?” “Beg your pardon, my lord,” gasped the despairing Davids. “I couldn’t look, she’s too mortal heavy.” “She--who? Why, it’s you, Davids! What are you doing?” Lord Erceldonne stared as he had never stared in all his ill-spent life. “Going to the workhouse,” said the man wretchedly.