Presently the window was fastened, and the shutters drawn; lights began to appear in the upper windows. The boy lingered for a long time, but presently stole away; I crept after him. I did not know what to do, or what to think; I was like a lost soul wandering the earth, forlorn and hopeless and helpless. But he, going on through the night back to his lodging, was so much a part of myself, sprung up suddenly out of the past, that I could not bear to lose sight of him; I was close behind him when we came to the outskirts of the little town. There he turned suddenly, and faced about, looking at me. "Why do you follow me?" he asked suspiciously. "I meant no harm," I replied. "I beg you won't take any notice of me; I'm only a poor wanderer." I saw his hand go to his pocket, as though he would have given me money; I drew back hastily. "Not that," I said; "I don't need that. But I was once like you--God knows how many years ago!--and so I liked to feel that I was near you. I'm sorry ... good-night!" I went away quickly, leaving him staring after me. Presently, when he had gone on again, I followed him, at a greater distance; came to the inn where he was stopping, and stood outside for a long time, wondering passionately and despairingly if I could help him; and then laughing at that thought, ruefully enough, when I remembered my own forlorn condition. The hopelessness of doing anything there, where I was merely a penniless waif, was borne in upon me more forcefully the next day. I had found shelter in a barn, and I begged my breakfast from a charitable woman at a cottage. Then I set out again to walk to London. It was only when I was many miles on my journey that I stood still in the road, with a hand pressed to my forehead, and with a new light breaking in upon me. Jervis Fanshawe had tried to tell me of this new Barbara! Why had I forgotten that; why hadn't I understood what he meant? Jervis Fanshawe had told me that I should see my Barbara again, as I had seen her in the past; that I should come back to love and life and laughter. Jervis Fanshawe understood; surely he would be able to show me what was best to be done. I set off at a greater rate than ever for London, determined that I must see him at the earliest opportunity, and tell him the wonderful thing that I had discovered. I could think only of that discovery; I forgot completely what the man was whose services I desired to enlist--forgot all he had done, and all I had suffered indirectly through him. I had no one in the world to whom I could turn, save this man; and I only remembered with gratitude then that he had come to me at the moment of my release from prison, and had given me food and lodging.