This man had a history--as what man has not?--and it is probable that Emilia was saved from suicide by the remembrance of the most dolorous experience in his life. He was nearer seventy than sixty years of age, but he was strong and lusty still, and his heart had not been soured or embittered by trouble. The story of his special grief is a common one enough, and can be narrated in a few words. He was a married man, and his old wife was waiting at home for him, five and thirty miles away. Children had they none, but thirty years ago they had a daughter, who left them secretly upon the persuasion of a scoundrel. The villain took her to London, and after she had enjoyed a brief spell of false happiness she found herself deserted and friendless. In her despair she crept back to the home of which she had been the joy, but she had not the courage to enter it and beg for forgiveness. Her body was discovered in a river hard by, and in her pocket a letter to her parents, relating her story, and praying them to think kindly of her. That is all. It was the memory of this daughter that caused the wagoner to turn toward Emilia. Perhaps the poor girl was in a strait similar to that of his own lost child. Had _she_ met a kind heart, had a helping hand been stretched out to her, she might have been saved to them, might have been living at this very day to comfort and cheer her aged parents. He would make another effort to ascertain the trouble of the lonely girl who had shrunk from his touch. Up the hill he climbed, having no fear for his horses, who would only start again at the sound of his voice. Emilia had risen to her feet, and her trembling hands were extended to the river, as though to push it from her, while her form swayed toward it. He saw her face now, and his heart beat with pity for her. It may have been fancy, but he fancied he saw in her a resemblance to his lost child. So engrossed was Emilia in the terrible struggle that was raging in her soul that she was not aware she was observed until the wagoner seized her arm, and said, "My dear, let me help you in your trouble." It was like the voice of an angel who had come to her rescue. She threw her arms about him, and cried, in a voice of exhaustion: "Save me, save me!" "It's what I've come for, my dear," said the wagoner, holding her up. "Where is your home?" "Home!" she echoed, hysterically, "I have none! I am alone in the world--alone, alone!" "No father or mother?" "None." "No friends?" "None--not one." "What can I do for you?" "Take me from the river. Hark! Do you not hear what it is whispering to me? I am exhausted; my strength is gone, and I can no longer resist. If you leave me here I shall die!" "But you do not know where I am going." "It does not matter. Anywhere, anywhere, so that I can have rest. Hide me--hide me! Oh, my heart, my heart!"