‘Do you know, I have been thinking about you a great deal to-day?’ he said. ‘I had a letter this morning from Hugo von Birkenau: he saw a German lady in the gardens at ----, and thought it was you. Just fancy! He made all sorts of inquiries about you. How fortunate that I happened to look in this afternoon!’ Helena seemed to have nothing to reply. Her face was still downcast; she remained silent. ‘It is nearly two years since we met,’ he urged; ‘and yet you do not say you are glad to see me.’ ‘Oh, I am! Very glad,’ murmured Helena. ‘You live in Manchester still?’ ‘Yes; mamma and I. We live in Woodford Street----’ She named one of the southern suburbs of Manchester. ‘Do you? That is not far away. How odd that we should never have met!’ ‘I don’t think so. Woodford Street is not a fashionable locality.’ ‘Is it not? I must remember the name. I asked my mother where you lived, but she said she did not know the address. But now that we have met, I am sure you will allow me to call, will you not?’ ‘Our house is so very small; we have so few visitors,’ she began in some embarrassment. ‘But, my dear Miss Spenceley, you do not seriously mean that you could urge that as an objection,’ he exclaimed. ‘You are pleased to chaff me, I think, as you used to do.’ Helena turned abruptly away; her lips set; her eyes fixed upon a water-colour drawing immediately before them. ‘Do you mean that you really would rather I did not come?’ he asked earnestly, and excessively piqued at the idea. ‘If you really wish to come,’ said Helena, rather proudly, ‘of course we shall be happy to see you, but I am sure you will find it very inconvenient. I am engaged until after four o’clock, and mamma----’ ‘Until after four? I shall remember that. The evenings are long now, and there are trains going to Thanshope till midnight, you know. How is Mrs. Spenceley?’ ‘She is very well, thank you.’ ‘Have you been bringing these young people to see the pictures?’ he inquired, for something in Helena’s manner forbade him to make the eager personal inquiries which crowded to his lips. Now that the first shock and surprise of meeting him again had passed, and she had recovered her self-possession, there was a certain pride and distance of bearing which seemed to require considerable deference on his part. Helena’s troubles had indeed made her into a woman; she had most decidedly quitted the girlish stage. She had probably, thought Sebastian, become a great deal more reasonable, and consequently a great deal less amenable to the influence of other persons--Miss Mereweather, for instance, and himself too. With regard to Miss Mereweather, it might be a matter of rejoicing that Helena had forsworn her tenets, but with regard to himself, perhaps that was not altogether delightful. ‘Yes,’ said Helena, calmly, as she looked at the three children, ‘I have. They are my pupils.’ ‘Are they good?’