He made no reply, but sat there following her movements with his eyes. She went beside him, and stood, with nervously clasped hands, looking with vacant eyes at the group of wax candles that burned in one of the sconces. Once again she turned away with a little cry, but then with a great effort she controlled herself, and her voice was almost tranquil when she spoke, seating herself. “You were with me at the Pantheon, and saw me when I caught sight of that man,” she said. “You alone were observant. Did you also see him call me to his side in the green room at the playhouse?” “I saw you in the act of speaking to him there--he calls himself Jackson--Captain Jackson,” said Goldsmith. “You saved me from him once!” she cried. “You saved me from becoming his--body and soul.” “No,” he said; “I have not yet saved you, but God is good; He may enable me to do so.” “I tell you if it had not been for you--for the book which you wrote, I should be to-day a miserable castaway.” He looked puzzled. “I cannot quite understand,” said he. “I gave you a copy of 'The Vicar of Wakefield' when you were going to Devonshire a year ago. You were complaining that your sister had taken away with her the copy which I had presented to your mother, so that you had not an opportunity of reading it.” “It was that which saved me,” she cried. “Oh, what fools girls are! They are carried away by such devices as should not impose upon the merest child! Why are we not taught from our childhood of the baseness of men--some men--so that we can be on our guard when we are on the verge of womanhood? If we are to live in the world why should we not be told all that we should guard against?” She laid her head down on the arm of the sofa, sobbing. He put his hand gently upon her hair, saying-- “I cannot believe anything but what is good regarding you, my sweet Jessamy Bride.” She raised her head quickly and looked at him through her tears.