"John," said Annie, "I must confide in you; I have no one else." "Of course if I can help you I shall be glad," he said a little coldly; for there was something in her words which brought back his distrust of her. "Well, it is just this: I have to go to Paris for a short time--" "You have--I don't understand." "And the painful part," continued Annie, "is this--that I am unable to explain. But I can tell you this much. I have a school friend--indeed, two school friends--who are both in--in trouble; and they can't possibly get out of their trouble without my help. If I go to Paris now to join my friend, things will be all right; if I don't go, things will be all wrong." "But, excuse me," said Saxon, "how can you go when your uncle is so ill?" "That is it," said Annie. "Of course, if he were in real danger I should be obliged to give my friends up. But he is not in danger, John; he only wants care. What I mean to do is this--or rather, I should say, what I should like to do. I would go, say, to-morrow to London, and then across to Paris, and there get through my little business and put things straight for those I love." Annie spoke most pathetically, and her blue eyes filled with tears. "She has a feeling heart," thought the young man. Once again his suspicions were disarmed. He drew a little closer to her. She felt that she had secured his sympathy. "Can't you understand," continued Annie, "that things may happen which involve other people? Can't you understand?" "It is difficult to know why you cannot speak about them, Annie," replied the young man. "Nevertheless, if you say so, it is of course the case." "It is the case. I undertook, perhaps wrongly--although I don't think so--to get a school fellow what she wanted most in the world last term. I wish you knew her; she is such a splendid, noble girl. She is very clever, too. I will tell you her name--Priscilla Weir. She has such a fine face, with, oh! so much in it. But she is unhappily situated. Her father is in India, and either cannot or will not help her; and she has no mother living, poor darling! and her uncle, her mother's brother, is quite a dreadful sort of creature. Priscilla is, oh, so clever! She has quite wonderful talents. And what do you think this uncle wants to do? Why, to apprentice her to a dressmaker. Think of it--a dressmaker!" John Saxon did think of it but he showed no surprise. One of the nicest girls he knew in Tasmania was a dressmaker. She was very well informed, and could talk well on many subjects. She read good books, and had a dear little house of her own, and often and often he sat and talked with her of an evening, when the day's work was done and they were both at leisure to exchange confidences. John Saxon was not the least bit in love with the dressmaker, but for her sake now he could not condemn the occupation. He said, therefore, quietly: