It only heightened Lemuel's conception of Miss Carver's character to have Berry talk so lightly and daringly of her, in her relation to him. He lay long awake after he went to bed, and in the turmoil of his thoughts one thing was clear: so pure and high a being must never know anything of his shameful past, which seemed to dishonour her through his mere vicinity. He must go far from her, and she must not know why; but long afterwards Mr. Sewell would tell her, and then she would understand. He owed her this all the more because he could see now that she was not one of the silly persons, as Mr. Sewell called them, who would think meanly of him for having in his ignorance and inexperience, done a servant's work. His mind had changed about that, and he wondered that he could ever have suspected her of such a thing. About noon the next day the street door was opened hesitatingly, as if by some one not used to the place; and when Lemuel looked up from the menus he was writing, he saw the figure of one of those tramps who from time to time presented themselves and pretended to want work. He scanned the vagabond sharply, as he stood moulding a soft hat on his hands, and trying to superinduce an air of piteous appeal upon the natural gaiety of his swarthy face. “Well! what's wanted?” A dawning conjecture that had flickered up in the tramp's eyes flashed into full recognition. “Why, mate!” Lemuel's heart stood still. “What--what do you want here?” “Why, don't you know me, mate?” All his calamity confronted Lemuel. “No,” he said, but nothing in him supported the lie he had uttered. “Wayfarer's Lodge?” suggested the other cheerfully. “Don't you remember?” “No----” “I guess you do,” said the mate easily. “Anyway, I remember you.” Lemuel's feeble defence gave way. “Come in here,” he said, and he shut the door upon the intruder and himself, and submitted to his fate. “What is it?” he asked huskily. “Why, mate! what's the matter? Nobody's goin' to hurt you,” said the other encouragingly. “What's your lay here?” “Lay?” “Yes. Got a job here?” “I'm the clerk,” said Lemuel, with the ghost of his former pride of office. “Clerk?” said the tramp with good-humoured incredulity. “Where's your diamond pin? Where's your rings?” He seemed willing to prolong the playful inquiry. “Where's your patent leather boots?” “It's not a common hotel. It's a sort of a family hotel, and I'm the clerk. What do you want?”