A time came when Reuben was sent to London to transact some business for Mr. Akenside. He was pleased to go. It was a fresh proof of the confidence his master reposed in him, and he was glad to know that he was so trusted. Besides, he had never before been in London, and he had a young man's eager curiosity to see the great city. His business transacted, he had leisure for sight-seeing. It was late autumn, and the nights were raw and cold. As he was crossing one of the bridges late in the evening on his return to his lodging, Reuben was struck by the forlorn appearance of a man who stood leaning over the parapet, gazing with an air of melancholy fascination at the dark river below. He looked so gaunt and haggard, his attitude was so hopeless, his clothes so shabby, whilst yet there was a certain air of respectability about him, that Reuben, having passed him, halted and looked back. "Some poor fellow," he thought, "in the grasp of despair. Is he tempted, I wonder, to end his misery by a plunge in the river?" As he watched him, the idea that the man harboured such an intention took possession of Reuben's mind so forcibly that he felt it impossible to pass on and leave him to his fate. "At least I will speak to him," he said to himself, "and see if I can do anything. He shall not perish for want of a helping hand if it is in my power to aid him." He turned back. The bridge was almost deserted at that hour. The man suddenly raised his head, and looked furtively round, then, seeing Reuben, he slunk back into his former attitude. That instant's glance caused Reuben a shock of surprise. Could it be, or was he deceived by a fancied resemblance? He strode forward and grasped the man by the arm. He started violently and turned upon Reuben a frightened face. "Owen Grant!" "Reuben Roy!" For a few moments each gazed at the other ere another word was said. Then Owen tried to wrench himself from Reuben's grasp. "Let me go, Reuben Roy. Leave me to myself. I have nothing to do with you now." "But I have with you." Reuben's tone was kind, but firm. "Owen, we were friends as boys, and you must let me be your friend now. Tell me, where are you going to sleep to-night?" "Sleep? I? Anywhere, nowhere; there, perhaps." He pointed to the dark, shining surface of the water flowing beneath the bridge. "You must share my room to-night, and to-morrow I will take you home to your mother." "Home! To Ashworth!" his voice rose almost to a scream. "Never! I would rather die than face the old people." "You can never again face your father in this life, Owen, and your mother lives only in the hope of seeing you," said Reuben gravely. The news of his father's death quieted Owen. He struggled no more, but suffered Reuben to lead him where he would. And on the following day, after long, earnest talk, he accompanied Reuben back to Birmingham.