Certainly work is not always required of a man. There is such a thing as a sacred idleness, the cultivation of which is now fearfully neglected. Abraham, seated in his tent door in the heat of the day, would be to the philosophers of the nineteenth century an object for uplifted hands and pointed fingers. They would see in him only the indolent Arab, whom nothing but the foolish fancy that he saw his Maker in the distance, could rouse to run. It was clearly better to attempt no further communication with Mary at present; and I could think but of one person from whom, without giving pain, I might hope for some information concerning her. * * * * * Here I had written a detailed account of how I contrived to meet Miss Pease, but it is not of consequence enough to my story to be allowed to remain. Suffice it to mention that one morning at length I caught sight of her in a street in Mayfair, where the family was then staying for the season, and overtaking addressed her. She started, stared at me for a moment, and held out her hand. ‘I didn’t know you, Mr Cumbermede. How much older you look! I beg your pardon. Have you been ill?’ She spoke hurriedly, and kept looking over her shoulder now and then, as if afraid of being seen talking to me. ‘I have had a good deal to make me older since we met last, Miss Pease,’ I said. ‘I have hardly a friend left in the world but you--that is, if you will allow me to call you one.’ ‘Certainly, certainly,’ she answered, but hurriedly, and with one of those uneasy glances. ‘Only you must allow, Mr Cumbermede, that--that--that--’ The poor lady was evidently unprepared to meet me on the old footing, and, at the same time, equally unwilling to hurt my feelings. ‘I should be sorry to make you run a risk for my sake,’ I said. ‘Please just answer me one question. Do you know what it is to be misunderstood--to be despised without deserving it?’ She smiled sadly, and nodded her head gently two or three times. ‘Then have pity on me, and let me have a little talk with you.’ Again she glanced apprehensively over her shoulder. ‘You are afraid of being seen with me, and I don’t wonder,’ I said. ‘Mr Geoffrey came up with us,’ she answered. ‘I left him at breakfast. He will be going across the park to his club directly.’ ‘Then come with me the other way--into Hyde Park,’ I said. With evident reluctance, she yielded and accompanied me. As soon as we got within Stanhope Gate, I spoke. ‘A certain sad event, of which you have no doubt heard, Miss Pease, has shut me out from all communication with the family of my friend Charley Osborne. I am very anxious for some news of his sister. She is all that is left of him to me now. Can you tell me anything about her?’ ‘She has been very ill,’ she replied. ‘I hope that means that she is better,’ I said.