"The best, the sweetest, the most faithful and devoted. Would to Heaven the world was filled with such!" "I am with you there. But what I want to ask you is about Miss Lethbridge." "Fanny? Yes." "I don't wish you to betray family secrets, old fellow; but she is such a lovely girl--" "She is." "With so beautiful a nature that she could not fail to have attracted--you know what I mean, Fred; I am putting it rather lamely." "An attachment?" "Yes; but _you_ put it somewhat coarsely." "Didn't mean to, Dick. Quite right that you should be sensitive. Attracted? Rather! A dozen at least have sighed for her, and sighed in vain." "Why?" "Not the right ones, Dick. If there is one quality above another which distinguishes Fanny it is genuineness. A more genuine girl doesn't breathe. Dick, to be admitted upon terms of intimacy with that family is a privilege." "I esteem it such. Not the right ones, Fred? Of course that must be the reason." "It is. Where she gives her hand she will give her heart. They go together--both or none." "Do you think--that is, have you any sort of idea--that she has met the right one at last?" "Seriously, Dick? In perfect faith and honour?" "Seriously, Fred. In perfect faith and honour." "Dick, old boy," said Fred, earnestly, "I _have_ a sort of idea that she has." "You are a shrewd fellow, Fred--you have a trick of observation. You know what I mean?" "I do, Dick." "Well, then, good luck to us!" The month was November; a fog was gathering; a light mist was dissolving, and falling cold and chill; but Dick Garden was glowing from within. As he was buttoning his coat a man brushed past them, and Fred caught a glimpse of his face. "A moment, Dick," he said, hurriedly, "that is Tom Barley. I must have a word with him." He hastened after Tom, and accosted him. "It _is_ you, Tom. Have you any news?" "None, sir--that is, none that I can speak of. Don't stop me, please; I haven't a minute to spare." These words came straggling from Tom's lips, and in his anxiety he seemed to be hardly aware of what he was saying. "Am I mistaken in the idea that you have heard something?" asked Fred. "No, sir, you are not mistaken. I am on their track." "As you have been before, Tom?" "That's true, sir," said Tom, with a sigh; "as I have been before." "Can I assist you?" "No, sir; nor any one. What I do I'll do single-handed." He wrenched himself free. "Good-night, sir." "Only another word, Tom. Have you any message for Miss Phoebe? She told me, if I met you, to give you her love." "Did she, sir? She's an angel of goodness. Any message, sir? Yes, this--if I don't live to accomplish what I've set my life upon, if I don't live to ask her forgiveness myself, to think of me kindly sometimes as a man who would gladly have died for her!" He darted away, and was lost in the mist. Fred gazed thoughtfully after him, and then he rejoined Garden.