"They must have left me." "Then you were with someone." "Yes—three." "Where had you been?" "Wine room. Don’t turn me over to the police. I won’t go there again." "Can’t you remember now where you live?" "It is a long ways from here—over on the West Side. I won’t go there in this fix. I would rather die." "Then I don’t know what to do." "Don’t turn me over to the police," she moaned. He stood with his hat in his hand, looking up and down the street. From the corner came the whack of the policeman’s club against a lamp post. Not far away the fountain splashed its music. "Can you walk?" he asked. "I’ll try. But where are you going to take me?" "To my home." "No," she cried piteously. "I don’t want a woman to see me this way." "No woman is there to see you. Come on." He led her along, supporting her with his arm. He did not look to see if there were any windows lighted about the square; he did not think of scandal; he thought of the poor thing heavy upon his arm, not as a preacher, but as a man. He carried her up the stone steps, unlocked the door and went into the hall, into the red light falling from the lamp. Up the stairs he led her, into a front room, striking a match as he entered, lighted the gas and eased her down upon a chair. She was deathly pale. "Let me lie down," she said. He pointed to the bed, stepped out into another room and drew the portières. Then he lay down upon a sofa, not to think of what he had done, but of Agnes. He was awakened by the housekeeper’s tap upon the door. "Come in," he called, and as she entered he thought of the woman. The housekeeper was fat and full of scandal. She walked straightway to the portières and drew them aside to enter the room, and started back with a gasp of surprise. "My sister," said Bradley. "She came on a late train, and is going out early. Don’t disturb her. She brought me bad news from home, and must go on further to see my other brother. She could not explain by telegraph. It involves the settling of an estate." He was now standing beside the housekeeper and could see into the adjoining room. The girl, with a remnant of modesty, had drawn the covering over her. Two days later, Sunday, at the close of services, a woman came forward, held out her hand to Bradley and said: "I want you to pray for me." Her face was pale and there was true repentance in her eyes. "You are my sister," Bradley replied, and this time he did not believe that he had told a falsehood. She went out, with tears on her cheeks; and a lady who had come up to compliment the preacher on his sermon, asked: "Who is that girl?" "I don’t know her name." "She met me just as I was coming in," said the lady, "and was anxious as to whether or not this was your church. She was evidently not looking for denominations." She was not. She was looking for something nearer God—a man. *CHAPTER XVIII.* *MADE HIS PROPOSITION.*