A tall youth carrying a parcel of books under his arm was hurrying along Market Place, Manchester. Beside him were covered flower stalls bordering the pavement, in front of him the domed mass of the Manchester Exchange, and on all sides he had to push his way through a crowd of talking, chaffering, hurrying humanity. Presently he stopped at the door of a restaurant bearing the idyllic and altogether remarkable name--there it was in gilt letters over the door--of the 'Fruit and Flowers Parlour.' On the side post of the door a bill of fare was posted, which the young man looked up and down with careful eyes. It contained a strange medley of items in all tongues-- 'Marrow pie _Haricots à la Lune de Miel_ _Vol-au-Vent à la bonne Santo:_ Tomato fritters Cheese 'Ticements _Salad saladorum_' And at the bottom of the _menu_ was printed in bold red characters, 'No meat, no disease. _Ergo_, no meat, no sin. Fellow-citizens, leave your carnal foods, and try a more excellent way. I. E. Push the door and walk in. The Fruit and Flowers Parlour invites everybody and overcharges nobody.' The youth did not trouble, however, to read the notice. He knew it and the 'Parlour' behind it by heart. But he moved away, pondering the _menu_ with a smile. In his amused abstraction--at the root of which lay the appetite of eighteen--he suddenly ran into a passer-by, who stumbled against a shop window with an exclamation of pain. The youth's attention was attracted and he stopped awkwardly. 'People of your height, young man, should look before them,' said the victim, rubbing what seemed to be a deformed leg, while his lips paled a little. 'Mr. Ancrum,' cried the other, amazed. 'Davy!' The two looked at each other. Then Mr. Ancrum gripped the lad's arm. 'Help me along, Davy. It's only a bruise. It'll go off. Where are you going?' 'Up Piccadilly way with a parcel,' said Davy, looking askance at his companion's nether man. 'Did I knock your bad leg, sir?' 'Oh no, nothing--never mind. Well now, Davy, this is queer--decidedly queer. Four years!--and we run against each other in Market Street at last. Tell me the truth, Davy--have you long ago given me up as a man who could make promises to a lad in difficulties and forget 'em as soon as he was out of sight? Say it out, my boy.' David flushed and looked down at his companion with some embarrassment. Their old relation of minister and pupil had left a deep mark behind it. Moreover, in the presence of that face of Mr. Ancrum's, a long, thin, slightly twisted face, with the stamp somehow of a tragic sincerity on the eyes and mouth, it was difficult to think as slightingly of his old friend as he had done for a good while past, apparently with excellent reason. 'I supposed there was something the matter,' he blurted out at last. 'Well, never mind, Davy,' said the other, smiling sadly. 'We can't talk here in this din. But now I've got you, I keep you. Where are you?'