tomb, and, with an oath, clutched her arm. She wrenched it from him with an affrighted cry and fled--so swiftly, that though he who had saved her hurried after her, he could not reach her side. She ran along the Embankment till she came to Westminster Bridge, when she turned her back upon the river, and mingled with the people that were going towards the Strand. She had walked at least five miles, but she felt no fatigue. There are occasions when the weakest bodies are capable of strains that would break down the strongest organisations, and this frail woman was upheld by mental forces which supplied her with power to bear. In the Strand she found her progress impeded. It was eleven o'clock, and the theatres were pouring out their animated crowds. In one of these crowds she became ingulfed, and formed a passive unit in the excited throng, being hustled this way and that, and pushed mercilessly about by those who were struggling to disentangle themselves. This rough treatment produced no effect upon her; she submitted in patience, and in time reached the edge of the crowd. When she arrived at a certain point, where the people had room to move more freely, two persons, a man and a woman, passed her, and the voice of the woman fell upon her ears. An exclamation of bewildered amazement hung upon Mrs. Lenoir's lips. It was her own voice she had heard, and she had not spoken. Not the sad voice which those who knew her were accustomed to hear, but the glad blithe voice which was hers in her youth, and which she had been told was sweet as music. She paused and listened; but only the accustomed Babel of sound reached her now. She had distinguished but one word--"Love," and she knew she had not uttered it. Although her nerves were quivering under the influence of the mystery, she had no choice but to pursue her way, and she continued walking in the direction of Temple Bar. Gradually the human throng lessened in numbers. It was spreading itself towards the home lights through all the windings of the city; and when Mrs. Lenoir had passed the arch of the time-honoured obstruction she had room enough and to spare. Now and then she was overlapped by persons whose gait was more hurried than her own; more frequently she passed others who were walking at a more reasonable pace. Approaching a couple who, arm-in-arm, were stepping onwards as though it were noon instead of near midnight, she heard again the voice that had startled her.