And then came a sudden remembrance of the men who had come to her father's house in Park Lane--men who had shown by their faces and by their words that they existed only for self-pleasing. The quiet girl, with her own aims and ideals, had inwardly despised them all. Robert Cardigan had been, perhaps, a little better than the rest. She could recall certain looks and tones of his that had seemed real. He had even listened, with some interest, to those schemes for helping humanity which she had spoken of, once or twice, in his hearing. Well, the power that she had longed for had come to him; but it was doubtful if he would use it as she would have done. The child and the girl had both passed away; Alice Harper, dressmaker, was walking through these West End streets to the home for working women which had been her refuge for two long years. And Alice Harper, dressmaker, was going to leave London to-morrow to live in the country. She had never seen Mrs. Bower, but she knew her perfectly by description. Mrs. Bower was the wife of a farmer; they had two daughters who wanted to learn dressmaking; and there was a good opening for business in their neighbourhood. Miss de Vigny had advised Alice to go to Swallow's Nest. "If you get tired of the country you can leave it," she had said. "But you have an instinctive longing for woods and fields and fresh air, and you are sorely in need of all these blessings." The big house was generally quiet on a Sunday evening. It was sultry weather, and all the windows were opened wide. Alice caught a glimpse of the new moon above the house-tops as she ran upstairs. It hung faint and golden over the crowded roofs, in a sky touched with pale crimson, and dim with mist. "I shall see it to-morrow above the woods," she thought with a sudden gladness. She took off her hat and coat in her cubicle, and ran down to supper in her muslin blouse and tweed skirt. Not a single person in that full house was acquainted with her real history. She had never talked of bygone days and lamented her vanished prosperity. She wore no jewels; her watch was the sole relic of the past that could ever be seen. One or two had remarked that it was a very beautiful watch, and she had simply said that it was a gift from someone who was dead. But in spite of a strong natural reserve she had made many friends. Living here, a poor woman among the poor, she had learnt that one must give love if one cannot give money. "So you are going to leave us, Miss Harper," said a young girl who sat beside her at supper. "You will be missed for many a day. There are kindnesses that we never forget." "Ah, if only I could have been more helpful," Alice sighed.