When the memorable winter came, it was a natural thing to use the resources of this mission for the purposes of that undiscriminating charity the season required; and so we had the Temple (suggested by Rupert Trevelle and other organizations not less useful). Silvester himself went into this work with the ardour of a man of twenty. His sermons at Hampstead were masterpieces of eloquence; his labours at Stepney would have wearied a giant. The national necessity demanded heroism--there will always be many in England to answer such a call when it comes. Gabrielle herself had been handicapped somewhat by Maryska's illness; but the child responded quickly to the devoted care bestowed upon her, and youth emerged triumphant. Her every whim gratified, as Faber dictated, she was nevertheless often alone in the little house now, and many were the solitary hours she spent there. Harry Lassett alone saved her from despair; and so much did she come to rely upon him, that she would send a note round by hook or by crook whenever Gabrielle went out, and sometimes when she was at home. One of these letters went up the fifth morning after Faber's visit to the Temple. Silvester was to address a big meeting at the Mansion House upon that day, and Gabrielle to open the factory as a second centre for the distribution of bread. Maryska, who heard with impatience all this talk of things she failed utterly to understand, sulked for an hour in the lonely house, and then dispatched a letter by a friendly butcher to Harry's rooms, near the Holly Bush Inn. To her great joy, he came at once, wrapped in a monstrous fur coat and evidently amiable. This little waif from the unknown was already growing into his life, though he would have been angry had his oldest friend told him as much. "Hallo, little Gipsy!--and what's up this morning?" he asked, as he came like a great bear into Silvester's puny dining-room. "Gipsy" was his favourite name for her, and she liked it well enough. "Oh!" she said, "they've all gone praying again, Harry--they're not fed up with it, even yet! I'm sick of this house! Oh! I'm d----d sick of it, Harry. Won't you take me out?" He always laughed at this trick of strong expression, caught by the child from a Bohemian father; an anathema to Gabrielle and the Reverend Gordon. Harry rather liked it, for it seemed to him somehow that he was talking to a man when he and Maryska were alone together. "Why, Gipsy!" he cried, taking both her hands, "you do look blue, upon my word! Where do you want to go to now? Where shall I take you if we have a spree?" She thought upon it with a quick and serious glance aside. "To a café!" she said at length. "Let us go and eat bouillabaisse at a café! _He_ always did when the drawing had tired him. Let us melt the old pot, and drink it--that's what he used to say!" "But, Maryska! If I haven't got any money?" She laughed at that.