"Well, Martha, you have the key to my secret. Let it be sacred between us, and do not let any reference to it pass your lips unless with my consent." He asked her to recall the time when he and she last met. "I do," she answered. "It was in the porch of your father's house, on the day you left." "But I have seen you since then, Martha." "Not there!" she exclaimed, in surprise. "Not at Stapleton!" "No; in London. I am about to give you a surprise, Martha; the day seems full of surprises, indeed. I am going to tell you where I live." He told her the street, and the number of the house. In amazement, she cried, "Why, that's where Lizzie lived! I was at the house this morning!" "I never saw Lizzie's face; all I knew was that a young girl and an old man lived at the top of the house. I keep myself very quiet, Martha, and have not been desirous of making acquaintances. So now you know where to come and see me in London, should you wish; for of course I cannot come to Stapleton. Things go on as usual there, I suppose?" "Yes; there is no change." He made no farther reference to his former home, and came back to his theme. "I shall stay here, Martha. You had best go home; I will write to you to-morrow. When you hear from Lizzie, with her new address, come to me and let me know it." "Have you decided, then, what to do, Felix?" "I can't see my way clearly, but things will shape themselves for me. Have you seen the play of _Richelieu?_" "I haven't been to a theatre since I was a girl," she replied. "Well, in one part of that play the principal mover finds it necessary for his plans to put on a fox's skin. It may be that I shall take a leaf out of his book. Come, we must be moving." CHAPTER XXVIII. LIZZIE IN HER NEW HOME. There is no telling nowadays where London ends and the country commences. It is difficult to realize that quite recently in our history, within the last three hundred years indeed, the Strand was bush and garden, and that Westminster and Islington were made pleasant by green woods and fields. Then, houses were few and far between; now, they are so thickly clustered that (animated, perhaps, by the spirit of their inhabitants) they seem to be poking their elbows into each other's ribs, and to be jealous of one another. So, for rest and quiet, we must away from these busy thoroughfares.