T is an afternoon in December, gray and chilly and dark; neither the season nor the hour to exhilarate the heart. I am alone in my room, bending over my writing-table, endeavoring to relieve my depression upon paper.

Since my appearance upon the music-hall stage I have enjoyed the society of my Oxford friends while they remained in town; I have revelled with Teddy; I have had my “burst”; and now the reaction has come. The solace of my most real and intimate friend, Dick Shafthead, is denied me, for he has apparently left London for a time; at any rate, his rooms are shut up and he is not there. No company now but regrets and cynical reflections. A short time ago what bright fancies were visiting me!

“Woman gives and woman takes away,” I said to myself. “But she takes more than she gives!” I felt indeed bankrupt.

Opening my journal and glancing back over rose-tinted, deluded eulogies, I came to the interrupted entry, “To d'Haricot from d'Haricot.” Ah, that I had profited by my own advice! “Foolish friend, beware!”—but he had not.

I took up my pen and continued the exhortation.

“What is woman? A false coin that passes current only with fools! Art thou a fool, then? No longer!”

Just then came a tap at the door, followed by the comely' face of Aramatilda.

“A lady to see you, sir,” she said.

I started. Could it be—? Impossible!

“Who is she?” I asked, indifferently.

“She didn't give her name, sir.”

“Show her in,” I replied, closing my journal, but repeating its last words to myself.

Again the door opened. I rose from my seat. Did Kate hope to befool me again? No, it was not Kate who entered and said, in a tone of perfect self-possession:

“Are you Mr. d'Haricot?”

She was rather small, she was young—not more than two-and-twenty. She had a very fresh complexion and a pretty, round little face saved from any dolliness by the steadiness of her blue eyes, the firmness of her mouth, and the expression of quiet self-possession. She reminded me of some one, though for the moment I could not think who.

“I am Mr. d'Haricot,” I replied. “And you?”

“I am Aliss Shafthead.”

“Dick's sister!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” she said, with a pleasant glimpse of smile that accentuated the resemblance. “Have you seen him lately?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

She gave me a quick, clear glance as if to test my truth, and then, as though she were satisfied, went on in the same quiet and candid voice:

“I tried to find my cousin Teddy Lumme, but, as he was out, I have taken the liberty of calling on you, because I know you are one of Dick's friends—and because—” She hesitated, though without any embarrassment, and gave me the same kind of glance again—just such a look as Dick would have given, translated into a woman's eye.

“Is anything the matter?” I asked, quickly. “Yes,” she said. “He has left home and we don't know where he is.”

“What has happened?” I exclaimed.

“He has told you of Agnes Grey, I think?” she answered.

“He has given me his confidence.”

“Dick came home a few days ago, and became engaged to her. My father was angry about it and now they have gone away.”

She told me this in the same quiet, straightforward way, looking straight at me in a manner more disconcerting than any suggestion of reproach. It was I—I, the misanthrope, the contemner of woman, who had urged him, exhorted him to this reckless deed! And evidently she knew what my counsel had been. I could have shot myself before her eyes if I had thought that step would have mended matters.

“Then they have run away together!” I cried. “They have gone away,” she repeated, quietly, “and, I suppose, together. I am afraid my father was very hard on them both.”

“And doubtless you have learned what ridiculous advice I gave him?”

“Yes,” she replied, “Dick told me.”

“And now you abhor me.”

“I should be much obliged if you would help me to find them,” she answered, still keeping her steady eyes upon my distracted countenance.

“I ask your pardon,” I said. “It is help you want, not my regrets—though, I assure you, I feel them. Have you been to his chambers?”

“Yes, I went and knocked, but I could get no answer.”

“Perhaps they—I should say he—has returned by now. I shall go at once and see.”

“Thank you,” she replied, still quietly, but with a kinder look in her eyes.

“And you—will you wait here?”

“Oh, I shall come, too, of course,” she said, and somehow I found this announcement pleasing.

As we drove together towards the Temple, I learned a few more particulars of Dick's escapade. When he told his father his intention of marrying Miss Grey, the indignation of the baronet evidently knew no bounds, for even his daughter admitted that he had been less than courteous to poor Agnes, and what he had said to Dick was discreetly left to my imagination. This all happened yesterday; Agnes had retired, weeping, to her bedroom, and Dick, swearing, towards the stables. The orders he gave the coachman were only discovered afterwards; but his plans were well laid, for it was not till the culprits were missing at dinner that any one discovered they had only waited till darkness fell and then driven straight to the station. No message was left, no clew to their whereabouts. You can picture the state of mind the family were thrown into.

Morning came, but no letter with it, and by the middle of the day Miss Shafthead could stand the suspense no longer, so, in the same business-like fashion as Dick, without a word to her parents, she had started in pursuit. The aunt she proposed to spend the night with was not as yet informed that she was to have a visitor; business first, and till that was accomplished my fair companion was simply letting fate take charge of her. “With fate's permission, I shall assist,” I said to myself.

As we drew near to the Temple, she fell silent, and I felt sure that, despite her air of sang-froid, her sisterly heart was beating faster.

“Do you think they—I mean he—will have returned?” she said to me, suddenly, as we walked across the quiet court.

“Sooner or later he is sure to be in—if he is in London. May I ask you to say nothing as we ascend the stairs, and to permit me to make the inquiries?”

She gave her consent in a glance, and we tramped up the old wooden staircase till we stopped in silence before Dick's door. These chambers of the Temple are unprovided with any bells or other means of calling the inmates' attention beyond the simple method of knocking. If the heavy outer door of oak be closed, and he away from home, or disinclined to receive you, you may knock all afternoon without getting any satisfaction; and it was the latter alternative I feared. At this juncture I could imagine circumstances under which my friend might prefer to remain undisturbed.

For a moment I listened, and I was sure I could hear a movement inside. Then I knocked loudly. No answer. I knocked again, but still no answer.

“Stay where you are and make no sound,” I whispered to my companion. “Like the badger, he must be drawn.”

I fumbled at the letter-slit in the door as though I were the postman endeavoring to introduce a packet, and dropped my pocket-book on the floor outside. This I knew to be the habit of these officials when a newspaper proved too bulky. Then, quietly picking up the pocket-book, I descended the stairs with as much noise as possible, till I thought I was out of hearing, when I turned and ran lightly up again. Just as I was quietly approaching the top of the flight I saw the door open and the astonished Dick confront his sister. I stopped.

“Daisy!” he exclaimed, in a tone which seemed to be made up of several emotions.

“Dick!” she replied, her self-control just failing to keep her voice quite steady.

“Was it you who knocked?” he asked, more suspiciously than kindly.

“No, Dick; it was I who look that liberty,” I answered, continuing my ascent.

He turned with a start, for he had not seen me.

“You?” he said, sharply. “It was a dodge, then, to—”

“To induce you to break from cover. Yes, my friend, to such extremities have you driven us.”

“In what capacity have you come?” he asked, with ominous coolness.

“As friends,” I replied. “Friends who have come to place ourselves at your service; haven't we, Miss Shafthead?”

“Yes,” said she, “we are friends. Don't you believe me, Dick?”

“Who sent you?” he asked.

“I came myself.”

“Does my father know?”

“No.”

Dick's manner changed.

“It's very good of you, Daisy. Unfortunately—” here he hesitated in some embarrassment—“unfortunately, I am engaged—I mean I have some one with me.”

At this crisis Miss Daisy rose to the occasion in a way that surprised me, even though I had done little but admire her spirit since we met.

“Of course,” she replied, with a smile; “I was sure you would have, Dick, and I want to see you both.”

“Come in, then,” he said.

“And I?” I asked, with a becoming air of diffidence.

“As I acted on your advice,” he answered, “you'd better see what you've done.”

We entered, and there, standing in the lamplight, we saw the cause of all this mischief. She was a little, slender figure with a pretty little oval face in which two very soft brown eyes made a mute appeal for sympathy. There was something about her air, something about her demure expression, something about the simplicity of her dress and the Puritan fashion in which she wore her hair, that gave one an indescribably quaint and old-fashioned impression, and this impression was altogether pleasant. When she opened her lips, and in a voice that, I know not how, heightened this effect, and with an expression of sweetness and contrition said, simply: “Daisy, what must you think?” I forgot all my worldly wisdom and was ready, if necessary, to egg her lover on to still more gallant courses Daisy herself, however, capitulated more tardily. She did not, as I hoped, rush into the charming little sinner's arms, but only answered, kindly, indeed, yet as if holding her judgment in reserve:

“I haven't heard what has happened yet.”

I gave a sign to Dick to be discreet in answering this inquiry, which he however read as merely calling attention to my presence.

“Oh, let me introduce Mr. d'Haricot—Miss Grey,” he said.

So she was still Aliss Grey—and they had fled together nearly four-and-twenty hours ago. I repeated my signal to be careful in making admissions.

“Where have you been?” said Daisy.

“I have some cousins—some cousins of my father's—in London,” Agnes answered. “I am staying with them.”

“And you are living here?” I said to Dick.

“Where else?” he replied, with a surprise that was undoubtedly genuine.

“The arrangement is prudence itself,” I pronounced. “You see, Miss Shafthead, that these young people have tempered their ardor with a discretion we had scarcely looked for. I do not know what you intend to do, but, for myself, I kiss Miss Grey's hand and place my poor services at her disposal!”

And I proceeded to carry out the more immediately possible part of this resolution without further delay.

The little mademoiselle was evidently affected by my act of salutation, while Dick exclaimed, with great cordiality:

“Good old monsieur; by Jove! you're a sportsman!”

Still his sister hung back; in fact, my impetuosity seemed to have rather a damping effect upon her.

“What are you going to do, Dick?” she asked.

“We are going to get married.”

“What, at once?”

“Almost immediately.”

“Without father's consent?”

“After what he said to us both—to Agnes in particular—do you think I am going to trouble about his opinion?”

“But, Dick, supposing we can get him to change his mind?”

“Who is going to change it for him? for he won't do it himself—I know the governor well enough for that.”

“If I try to, will you wait for a little?”

“It's no use,” said Dick.

“Wait till we see, Dick!”

“Yes, we shall wait,” said Agnes. “Dick, you will wait, won't you?”

“If you insist,” replied Dick, though not very cordially.

“Then you will try?” said Agnes.

Daisy came to her side, took her hand, and kissed her at last.

“Oh yes, I'll do my very best!” she exclaimed.

There followed one of those little displays of womanly affection that are so charming yet so tantalizing when one stands outside the embraces and thinks of the improvement that might be effected by a transposition of either of the actors.

“What will you say?” asked Dick, in a minute.

“I don't quite know,” replied Daisy, candidly. “I suppose I had better say that—”

She paused, as if considering.

“Say that this is one of the matches made in heaven!” I cried. “Say that not even a father has the right to stand between two people who love each other as these do!”

“By gad! Daisy,” said Dick, “you ought to take the monsieur with you. I don't believe there'd be any resisting him.”

“Let me come!” I exclaimed; “I claim the privilege. My rash counsels helped to cause this situation; permit me to try and make the atonement!”

Daisy looked at me, I am bound to say, rather doubtfully.

“He has a wonderful way with him,” urged Dick. “We can't do that kind of eloquent appeal-to-the-feelings business in England, but it fetches us if it's properly managed. You see, I don't want to fall out with the governor. I know, Daisy, what a good sort he has been—but I am not going to give up Agnes.”

“If you think Mr. d'Haricot would really do any good—” said Daisy.

“He can but try,” I broke in.

“Please let him,” said Agnes, softly.

Ah, I had not shown her my devotion in vain!

“All right,” said Daisy.

And so it was arranged that we were to start upon our embassy next morning.