‘It’s no mistake, Rhoda; she’s gone, sure enough, but I’ve no idea what danger Mr Walcheren can be in, unless he’s got into another scrape.’ Rhoda reddened like a rose. ‘Oh! no, mother, indeed; it’s something to do with men. The controls said so. It’s all very misty to me, but one thing’s clear--that I’m to go and see him, and my visit is to do him good. I sha’n’t be more than three or four hours gone, mother, and I’m sure baby will be good with you for that time.’ So, the following day, the injured girl set forth, with her heart full of nothing but love and concern for the man who had ruined her good name, and an earnest desire to return him good for evil. How some women can forgive! How they revel in forgiving! They seem always ready to take their betrayers and traducers back into their loving arms, as a mother receives her child, at the first note of repentance. Rhoda would have suffered very keenly at any other time on re-visiting London. Here it was that she had dreamed such delicious dreams, and woke up to find them delusions! Here it was that she had been publicly dishonoured and disgraced, and told to go home to her mother, and receive her reproaches, alone, friendless, and without protection! But she forgot all that trouble now that she was on her mission of mercy to Frederick Walcheren. She went to his flat in the Nevern Mansions first, and found it had been let, furnished, to new tenants. ‘Can you,’ she asked timidly of the servant who had opened the door, ‘give me the present address of Mr Frederick Walcheren?’ At this appeal, the mistress of the apartments came to have a look at her, and seeing that she was not a beggar, said she _had_ received Mr Walcheren’s address, for the purpose of forwarding his letters, but she did not know if he would receive any visitors. ‘I can but try,’ replied Rhoda, gently; ‘and if I cannot see him, they may deliver a message for me.’ ‘That is true,’ said the lady; ‘and, if you are a friend of his, you may as well take a packet of newspapers that have been waiting an opportunity to go to him.’ She gave Rhoda a large parcel of papers and magazines as she spoke, and added: ‘Mr Walcheren is staying at present at Canon Bulfil’s college in Winters’ Lane, Southwark.’ ‘Thank you very much,’ returned Rhoda; and then she said wistfully, ‘May I ask you, madam, if the report I have heard of the death of Mr Walcheren’s wife is true?’ ‘Oh! dear, yes. That happened months ago,’ replied the lady, as she closed the door again.