The mystery was solved after the meeting was over. There was some music, in the first place--anthems in which all the strength of Salem united, Tozer taking a heavy bass, while Phoebe exerted herself so in the soprano that Mr. Vincent's attention was forcibly called off his own meditations, in terror lest something should break in the throat so hardly strained. Then there were some oranges, another speech, a hymn, and a benediction; and then Mr. Raffles sprang joyfully up, and leaned over the platform to shake hands with his friends. This last process was trying. Mr. Vincent, who could no longer take refuge in silence, descended into the retiring throng. He was complimented on his speech, and even by some superior people, who had a mind to be fashionable, upon the delightful evening they had enjoyed. When they were all gone, there were still the Tozers, the Browns, the Pigeons, Mrs. Tufton, and Mr. Raffles. He was turning back to them disconsolate, when he was suddenly confronted by Mrs. Hilyard out of her corner with the fly-leaf of the hymn-book the unscrupulous woman had been writing in, torn out in her hand. "Stop a minute!" she cried; "I want to speak to you. I want your help, if you will give it me. Don't be surprised at what I ask. Is your mother a good woman--was it she that trained you to act to the forlorn as you did to me last night? I have been too hasty--I take away your breath;--never mind, there is no time to choose one's words. The butterman is looking at us, Mr. Vincent. The ladies are alarmed; they think I want spiritual consolation at this unsuitable moment. Make haste--answer my question. Would she do an act of Christian charity to a woman in distress?" "My mother is--yes, I know she would, what do you want of her?--my mother is the best and tenderest of women," cried Vincent, in utter amazement. "I want to send a child to her--a persecuted, helpless child, whom it is the object of my life to keep out of evil hands," said Mrs. Hilyard, her dark thin face growing darker and more pallid, her eyes softening with tears. "She will be safe at Lonsdale now, and I cannot go in my own person at present to take her anywhere. Here is a message for the telegraph," she added, holding up the paper which Vincent had supposed to be notes of Mr. Pigeon's speech; "take it for me--send it off to-night--you will? and write to your mother; she shall suffer no loss, and I will thank her on my knees. It is life or death." "I know--I am aware!" cried Vincent, not knowing what he said. "There is no time to be lost."