"Anything! Would you?" says he. "Anything except what's wrong," I said. "And you wouldn't ask that." "No, no, of course not," said he, in a hasty way, not looking at me. "Of course not." "What do you want me to do?" I asked. "Why," he said, "the fact is, I've got myself into an awful muddle, and I don't know how in the world to get out of it." "Can't Mary help you?" I said. "I wouldn't tell Mary for the world," says he. "I'd sooner never see her again." It seemed very strange to me. I didn't like to think how strange it was. For surely the natural way would have been to tell his trouble to Mary, who had been sister, mother, friend, everything to him. And yet the very thought of his turning to me was a joy that made my heart flutter and the whole place seem bright. I didn't so much trouble myself with thinking what the "muddle" was that he had got into. He wanted me to help him! That was the joy. "Don't say that," I begged. "Mary is so sweet and good." "Mary is goodness itself," he said. "But she has a hard side. You haven't seen Mary yet in one of her stern moods, sitting in judgment on a poor chap." I wouldn't have believed that Mary ever sat in judgment on anybody, if they had been any lips except Walter Russell's that said it. But I could not contradict him. "What is it I can do for you?" I asked, and I looked up in his face. "Tell me!" I said. "Kitty, you are a little angel," he exclaimed again, and most likely I blushed. "Well, but tell me," I said. "It'll be getting late soon." "So it will, and I haven't a moment to spare," says he. "Kitty—" and there he stuck. "Yes. What is it?" said I. "Kitty, I want—" said he. I couldn't help thinking of Rupert asking me to marry him, and a wonder came whether, perhaps— But no, I could see it wasn't that with Mr. Russell. Being in a "muddle" couldn't mean that he was going to try to get a wife. "Yes, you want what?" said I, to encourage him. "I want—money," he blurted out at last. I won't say it wasn't a blow. Somehow I had never thought of his coming to me for money. It seemed so odd. I couldn't help a sort of feeling that he lowered himself by it. "Kitty, don't you misunderstand me," says he earnestly, seeing, I suppose, that my face fell. "I wouldn't have you think ill of me, Kitty, for anything. It's just a thing that I—that I can't help, you know. And I don't know where to turn; so I felt I must come to you. The truth is, I've been very much pressed; you know, Mary's illness has been such a pull, and I—well, in fact, I had to borrow a small sum. Only a small sum for a short time, just to tide me over a time of difficulty. And it has to be repaid now, and I don't know how to repay it. Don't you misunderstand me, Kitty," says he, and he looked at me so soft and kind that my silly little heart beat fast, and I felt I would do anything for him. "Only I have no money!" I said. "No; but I thought—" said he, and stopped.