He wrapped himself in his heavy mackintosh, pressed down his soft felt hat closely, and set out to walk toward Dulwich through the wind and the rain. The raw air at first chilled then stimulated him and he made his way along rapidly. Gradually the ferment in his mind was allayed, and when he arrived in sight of his friend’s house, he almost hesitated as to going in; the physical exercise seemed to have cleared his mental horizon. But the half-hesitation brought back the feeling of helplessness from which he was trying to escape and he hurried on. “Why, Edward! You! It’s an age since you came my way; I thought you’d forgotten me. Give the girl your things—so—come along in here and warm yourself by the fire. You don’t know how glad I am to see you. But—you’re not looking well, though you’ve got a color.” The speaker was a middle-aged, thin little woman, with a sharp face, stamped deeply by the hand of pain, with deep-set, kindly gray eyes and a mouth that seemed formed so as to be able to give utterance only to words of kindness or of consolation. She sat down opposite him. “Aren’t you well, Edward?” “Yes, yes, thank you, I’m quite well in body. I see—you haven’t heard?” “Heard? Marian’s all well, I hope?” He did not answer, and after a searching look at him, she went on: “She’s not ill? If she is, why _didn’t_ you send for me, or come for me?” “No, no, no, it’s not that,” he broke in, vehemently; “it’s something far worse than that. I scarcely know how to tell you. She’s—gone away—away from me.” “Gone away? What do you mean, Edward?” “We weren’t happy together; at least, she wasn’t happy; she went away and she’s living a life of sin with another man. Oh, what am I to do?” “This is terrible. My poor boy, my poor boy.” She went quietly over to him, and putting her arm round his shoulder, drew his head gently to her. Then his pent-up suffering broke its bonds, and he sobbed bitterly as he rested there, near that kind heart to which no one in sorrow had ever appealed in vain. “My poor boy, why didn’t you come to me sooner?—instead of fighting it out all alone, though not alone, for I know you have faith in the great Comforter.” He held her hand tightly as he began, at first brokenly, to tell her all that had happened. She knit her brows as she listened, and when he ceased speaking, drew her hand gently from him, and drew back. “What am I to do?” he repeated. “Let me think a minute. But first, Edward, let us pray.” They kneeled down side by side at the table, and she prayed simply, uttering the petition of a helpless child to her Father, asking that this sorely-tried man and herself, his weak friend, might be guided rightly in all they should do and that the way might be made plain to them. The words brought comfort to him.