Bradley halted and took out his watch, and, holding it so as to catch the light, was about to tell him when the man snatched the watch, broke the chain and fled down an alley. The preacher shouted after him, ran a short distance down the alley, but, realizing that pursuit was folly, if not dangerous, returned to the street and continued his way homeward, the piece of chain dangling from his pocket. He thought of going to the nearest station to report the robbery, but his mind flew back to Agnes. How delicious it would be to have her all to himself, sitting by the fountain in the summer air. The perfume of the flowers would be sweeter, the falling of the water more musical. They would read together till the twilight came, read silly books, if she preferred them; and in the twilight they would read a book in which God had written—the book of their own hearts. And in cold weather they would sit in the warm light, at the window, and look out upon the little park, the shrubbery covered with snow, the statuary of winter. He would never seek to change the current of her mind. Nature had fashioned it a laughing rivulet and it should never be a sighing wave. With her in the congregation he could be more eloquent, touch more hearts through his love for her; he would be more akin to the young, for her love would be as a stream of youth constantly flowing into his life. Nature might have shown her power in the creation of man, but surely her glory in the creation of woman. He drew a contrast between Florence and Agnes. Florence was stronger, and had more dignity; but, of course, he believed that Agnes was more affectionate, and love was more beautiful than strength. He turned into the street leading to the Aldine gate. And how quiet everything was. It was a love night, the leaves murmuring. But, what was that lying on the sidewalk in front of the gate? A woman. He stood looking down at her. Could she have been murdered. The light was not strong, but he could see that she was not ill dressed. She was lying on her right side. He touched her shoulder and she turned upon her back with a moan. He leaned over her and caught the fumes of liquor. But he got down upon his knees, raised her head and spoke to her. "What are you doing here, poor girl?" he said. The light falling upon her face showed that she was young. She moaned and mumbled something. He asked her where she lived, but she could not tell him. "I don’t know what to do with you," he said. "Don’t leave me," she mumbled. "I will be back in a moment," he said, placing her with her back against the wall. Then he ran to the fountain, wet his handkerchief, and returning with it dripping, bathed her face. It was hot and feverish. The cold handkerchief appeared somewhat to revive her. "Don’t you know where you live?" "I can’t—don’t know the number." "Nor the street?" "Nothing." Again he bathed her face, and taking his hat fanned her with it. "How did you come here?"