"Where do you live now?" "Oh," he said, "I have been staying in North London, but will leave there soon, and I have not settled anything definitely at present. Where is the laundry you spoke of? I will call some day, if I may, and learn how you are getting on." "I will be so pleased. It is a little place in James Street--the only one there. Ask for Mrs. Wrigley." "It is lucky you understand laundry work, or things might go hard with you." She laughed pitifully. "I don't! They asked me if I was a washer or an ironer. I thought washing required least experience, so I said I was a washer. I am quick to learn, and will watch the other women. If they find me out I may be discharged." "Oh, cheer up," he said, pleasantly. "I don't suppose you'll find it very hard." Her voice sank almost to a whisper. "It is not the work I dread, but the surroundings. I was a school teacher before my marriage. My husband was an electrical engineer. We put all our savings into a little business, and then--the end came." "Not quite the end. I am only a boy, but I've had ups and downs enough to know that the beginning of next week may be a very different affair to the end of this. Good-by." They were passing the London Hospital, and he thought it prudent to alight at some distance from Johnson's Mews. "Well, God bless you, anyhow," she said, earnestly. "'E's got 'is 'ead screwed on tight, that lad," commented a man sitting next to her. "Better than that, he has a good heart," said Mrs. Wrigley. Most fortunate Mrs. Wrigley--to have encountered Philip in that hour, which she deemed the blackest in her life. He hastened through the familiar bustle of the busy thoroughfare with heightened expectancy, it is true, but devoid of the least fear that his meteor had been discovered. His mother would take good care of it. Why, the mere chance remark of the woman he had befriended showed that her gentle spirit watched over him wherever he went. Here was a stranger, a sad toiler among the millions, who went out of her way to praise the goodness of one she had never seen. He laughed joyously. Mrs. Wrigley should have further cause to bless his mother's memory. He passed O'Brien's shop. He saw the old man seated behind the counter. Should he go in? No. Better keep wholly to himself at present. Yet he hesitated. Which was the more judicious course--to remain hidden, unknown, or to drop quietly into the groove where he was recognized? With rare perspicacity for one so young, he reflected that only five days had elapsed since he last saw the old pensioner. The period bulked largely in Philip's life; in O'Brien's it would be as naught. Yielding to the second thought, he entered the shop. "Glory be to God, Phil, but it's miself is glad to see ye," cried his old friend. "Where have ye bin to, at all at all? Have yez heard what the murtherin' War Office is afther doin' to me? I haven't had a sowl to sphake to about the throuble they've put on me in me owld age."