He said nothing, but watched her in a kind of morbid fascination as she went to the fire and removed a saucepan which she had set there some minutes previously. Taking a large old-fashioned Delft bowl from a cupboard at one side of the fire-place, she filled it with steaming soup which smelt deliciously savoury and appetising, and brought it to him with some daintily cut morsels of bread. He was too ill to feel much hunger, but to please her, he managed to sip it by slow degrees, talking to her between-whiles. "You say you live alone here,"--he murmured--"But are you always alone?" "Always,--ever since father died." "How long is that ago?" "Five years." "You are not--you have not been--married?" She laughed. "No indeed! I'm an old maid!" "Old?" And he raised his eyes to her face. "You are not old!" "Well, I'm not young, as young people go,"--she declared--"I'm thirty-four. I was never married for myself in my youth,--and I shall certainly never be married for my money in my age!" Again her pretty laugh rang softly on the silence. "But I'm quite happy, all the same!" He still looked at her intently,--and all suddenly it dawned upon him that she was a beautiful woman. He saw, as for the first time, the clear transparency of her skin, the soft brilliancy of her eyes, and the wonderful masses of her warm bronze brown hair. He noted the perfect poise of her figure, clad as it was in a cheap print gown,--the slimness of her waist, the fulness of her bosom, the white roundness of her throat. Then he smiled. "So you are an old maid!" he said--"That's very strange!" "Oh, I don't think so!" and she shook her head deprecatingly--"Many women are old maids by choice as well as by necessity. Marriage isn't always bliss, you know! And unless a woman loves a man very very much--so much that she can't possibly live her life without him, she'd better keep single. At least that's _my_ opinion. Now Mr. David, you must go to bed!" He rose obediently--but trembled as he rose, and could scarcely stand from sheer weakness. Mary Deane put her arm through his to support him. "I'm afraid,"--he faltered--"I'm afraid I shall be a burden to you! I don't think I shall be well enough to start again on my way to-morrow." "You won't be allowed to do any such foolish thing!" she answered, with quick decision--"So you can just make up your mind on _that_ score! You must stay here as my guest." "Not a paying one, I fear!" he said, with a pained smile, and a quick glance at her. She gave a slight gesture of gentle reproach. "I wouldn't have you on paying terms,"--she answered; "I don't take in lodgers." "But--but--how do you live?" He put the question hesitatingly, yet with keen curiosity. "How do I live? You mean how do I work for a living? I am a lace mender, and a bit of a laundress too. I wash fine muslin gowns, and mend and clean valuable old lace. It's pretty work and pleasant enough in its way." "Does it pay you well?"