It was several minutes before the man came back, with a troubled countenance, to say that Mr. Lambert would see her. "I told him he'd better not," he explained, "and that set him that he would. He's very, very bad to-day, miss; perhaps you'd better say nothing to cross him. I'll be close at hand if you want me." For one instant her courage failed, then with an earnest lifting up of her heart to God for help she ascended the stairs and passed into the room. Mr. Lambert had often surprised her with his eccentricities, but never so much as now. He was lying dressed in a suit of white duck, on a luxurious lounge, his face almost as colorless as his dress, and altogether so changed that she felt a disposition to scream. He held out his hand, saying in a most polished manner, "You must excuse me, my friend, for not rising. I am quite reduced by illness." Trying not to show her surprise, Marion cordially seized his hand and drew a chair close to his side. "I'm so sorry I didn't know it before; I'm a very good nurse, and you must let me try my skill on you." His chin began to twitch with his efforts at self-control, so she added at once, hoping to change the current of his thoughts, "We've been such good friends that I know you will be glad to hear some news about me from myself. I'm going to change my name soon." Her cheeks, dyed with blushes, explained her meaning. "Is it to that bow-legged donkey you've pledged yourself," he shouted, starting from his pillow. "If it is, I protest!" "No, indeed, it is not he," she laughed, understanding to whom he referred, as he had warned her against him. "My friend is a clergyman, a real, working Christian. I must tell you how I first met him." She related the incident of selling him the gloves, at which he laughed heartily, and when she went on to tell what Mr. Angus wished to do for his people, he caught her hand and gave it a hearty shake, saying, "He's the kind. I'll consent to that." "You must treat me as you would a daughter," she said, putting her hand on his forehead, "and tell me when you're tired of hearing me talk. Don't you like to hear reading?" "Sing," he said, "sing something lively." She sang several secular songs, and then one beginning, "Jesus, Thou art all compassion," which brought the tears to his eyes. "Another," he said, briefly, when her voice ceased. "Yes, Mr. Lambert, I'll sing a favorite hymn, which I am sure you will like. "'Lord, lead the way the Saviour went By lane and cell obscure, And let love's treasures still be spent, Like His, upon the poor. Like Him through scenes of deep distress, Who bore the world's sad weight, We, in their crowded loneliness, Would seek the desolate. "'For Thou hast placed us side by side In this wide world of ill, And that Thy followers may be tried, The poor are with us still. Mean are all offerings we can make, But Thou hast taught us, Lord, If given for the Saviour's sake, They lose not their reward.'"