I LOOKED at the house. It was an inn, of no great size, but ofrespectable appearance. If I was to be of any use to her thatnight, the time had come to speak of other subjects than thesubject of dreams.

"After all that you have told me," I said, "I will not ask you toadmit me any further into your confidence until we meet again.Only let me hear how I can relieve your most pressing anxieties.What are your plans? Can I do anything to help them before you goto rest to-night?"

She thanked me warmly, and hesitated, looking up the street anddown the street in evident embarrassment what to say next.

"Do you propose staying in Edinburgh?" I asked.

"Oh no! I don't wish to remain in Scotland. I want to go muchfurther away. I think I should do better in London; at somerespectable milliner's, if I could be properly recommended. I amquick at my needle, and I understand cutting out. Or I could keepaccounts, if--if anybody would trust me."

She stopped, and looked at me doubtingly, as if she felt far fromsure, poor soul, of winning my confidence to begin with. I actedon that hint, with the headlong impetuosity of a man who was inlove.

"I can give you exactly the recommendation you want," I said,"whenever you like. Now, if you would prefer it."

Her charming features brightened with pleasure. "Oh, you areindeed a friend to me!" she said, impulsively. Her face cloudedagain--she saw my proposal in a new light. "Have I any right,"she asked, sadly, "to accept what you offer me?"

"Let me give you the letter," I answered, "and you can decide foryourself whether you will use it or not."

I put her arm again in mine, and entered the inn.

She shrunk back in alarm. What would the landlady think if shesaw her lodger enter the house at night in company with astranger, and that stranger a gentleman? The landlady appeared asshe made the objection. Reckless what I said or what I did, Iintroduced myself as her relative, and asked to be shown into aquiet room in which I could write a letter. After one sharpglance at me, the landlady appeared to be satisfied that she wasdealing with a gentleman. She led the way into a sort of parlorbehind the "bar," placed writing materials on the table, lookedat my companion as only one woman can look at another undercertain circumstances, and left us by ourselves.

It was the first time I had ever been in a room with her alone.The embarrassing sense of her position had heightened her colorand brightened her eyes. She stood, leaning one hand on thetable, confused and irresolute, her firm and supple figurefalling into an attitude of unsought grace which it was literallya luxury to look at. I said nothing; my eyes confessed myadmiration; the writing materials lay untouched before me on thetable. How long the silence might have lasted I cannot say. Sheabruptly broke it. Her instinct warned her that silence mighthave its dangers, in our position. She turned to me with aneffort; she said, uneasily, "I don't think you ought to writeyour letter to-night, sir."

"Why not?"

"You know nothing of me. Surely you ought not to recommend aperson who is a stranger to you? And I am worse than a stranger.I am a miserable wretch who has tried to commit a great sin--Ihave tried to destroy myself. Perhaps the misery I was in mightbe some excuse for me, if you knew it. You ought to know it. Butit's so late to-night, and I am so sadly tired--and there aresome things, sir, which it is not easy for a woman to speak of inthe presence of a man."

Her head sunk on her bosom; her delicate lips trembled a little;she said no more. The way to reassure and console her lay plainlyenough before me, if I chose to take it. Without stopping tothink, I took it.

Reminding her that she had herself proposed writing to me when wemet that evening, I suggested that she should wait to tell thesad story of her troubles until it was convenient to her to sendme the narrative in the form of a letter. "In the mean time," Iadded, "I have the most perfect confidence in you; and I beg as afavor that you will let me put it to the proof. I can introduceyou to a dressmaker in London who is at the head of a largeestablishment, and I will do it before I leave you to-night."

I dipped my pen in the ink as I said the words. Let me confessfrankly the lengths to which my infatuation led me. Thedressmaker to whom I had alluded had been my mother's maid in former years, and had been established in business with money lentby my late step-father, Mr. Germaine. I used both their nameswithout scruple; and I wrote my recommendation in terms which thebest of living women and the ablest of existing dressmakers couldnever have hoped to merit. Will anybody find excuses for me?Those rare persons who have been in love, and who have notcompletely forgotten it yet, may perhaps find excuses for me. Itmatters little; I don't deserve them.

I handed her the open letter to read.

She blushed delightfully; she cast one tenderly grateful look atme, which I remembered but too well for many and many anafter-day. The next moment, to my astonishment, this changeablecreature changed again. Some forgotten consideration seemed tohave occurred to her. She turned pale; the soft lines of pleasurein her face hardened, little by little; she regarded me with thesaddest look of confusion and distress. Putting the letter downbefore me on the table, she said, timidly:

"Would you mind adding a postscript, sir?"

I suppressed all appearance of surprise as well as I could, andtook up the pen again.

"Would you please say," she went on, "that I am only to be takenon trial, at first? I am not to be engaged for more"--her voicesunk lower and lower, so that I could barely hear the nextwords--"for more than three months, certain."

It was not in human nature--perhaps I ought to say it was not inthe nature of a man who was in my situation--to refrain fromshowing some curiosity, on being asked to supplement a letter ofrecommendation by such a postscript as this.

"Have you some other employment in prospect?" I asked.

"None," she answered, with her head down, and her eyes avoidingmine.

An unworthy doubt of her--the mean offspring of jealousy--foundits way into my mind.

"Have you some absent friend," I went on, "who is likely to provea better friend than I am, if you only give him time?"

She lifted her noble head. Her grand, guileless gray eyes restedon me with a look of patient reproach.

"I have not got a friend in the world," she said. "For God'ssake, ask me no more questions to-night!"

I rose and gave her the letter once more--with the postscriptadded, in her own words.

We stood together by the table; we looked at each other in amomentary silence.

"How can I thank you?" she murmured, softly. "Oh, sir, I willindeed be worthy of the confidence that you have shown in me!"Her eyes moistened; her variable color came and went; her dressheaved softly over the lovely outline of her bosom. I don'tbelieve the man lives who could have resisted her at that moment.I lost all power of restraint; I caught her in my arms; Iwhispered, "I love you!" I kissed her passionately. For a momentshe lay helpless and trembling on my breast; for a moment herfragrant lips softly returned the kiss. In an instant more it wasover. She tore herself away with a shudder that shook her fromhead to foot, and threw the letter that I had given to herindignantly at my feet.

"How dare you take advantage of me! How dare you touch me!" shesaid. "Take your letter back, sir; I refuse to receive it; I willnever speak to you again. You don't know what you have done. Youdon't know how deeply you have wounded me. Oh!" she cried,throwing herself in despair on a sofa that stood near her, "shallI ever recover my self-respect? shall I ever forgive myself forwhat I have done to-night?"

I implored her pardon; I assured her of my repentance and regretin words which did really come from my heart. The violence of heragitation more than distressed me--I was really alarmed by it.

She composed herself after a while. She rose to her feet withmodest dignity, and silently held out her hand in token that myrepentance was accepted.

"You will give me time for atonement?" I pleaded. "You will notlose all confidence in me? Let me see you again, if it is only toshow that I am not quite unworthy of your pardon--at your owntime; in the presence of another person, if you like."

"I will write to you," she said.

"To-morrow?"

"To-morrow."

I took up the letter of recommendation from the floor.

"Make your goodness to me complete," I said. "Don't mortify me byrefusing to take my letter."

"I will take your letter," she answered, quietly. "Thank you forwriting it. Leave me now, please. Good-night."

I left her, pale and sad, with my letter in her hand. I left her,with my mind in a tumult of contending emotions, which graduallyresolved themselves into two master-feelings as I walked on:Love, that adored her more fervently than ever; and Hope, thatset the prospect before me of seeing her again on the next day.