When Marion found herself out of the house for the second time on that day, with the letter in her hand addressed to her aunt, she had no idea of what direction she took. It was only a little after five o'clock, and the air was fall of pleasant sunshine. All around her were happy-looking people moving blithely along, each to some known point or other. She was going nowhere; she was simply going away. All places were alike to her, so long as there was no chance of meeting him there. She, whose whole nature yearned to be at his side, was flying from him who, she knew, wished her to remain for him, with him. What was all the world to one without love? How could it be that anything in the world could come between hearts that loved?

She turned east and walked on. She was conscious she knew well the streets through which she passed, but the names of them did not occur to her. After a while she found herself on the Thames Embankment. It was full tide, and the river looked its best. It was the fresh young summer of the year, when all London looks brightest; and no part of London, not even the parks, feels the summer so much as the Embankment; for there is not only the fresh green of the time on the trees of the Embankment and the gardens, but the bright silver of the river of all time sparkling back to the wide expanse of sky. Every wholesome man and woman and child, and beast and bird and insect, that could, came out to pay homage to the sun; all noisome things, human or beneath man in the scheme of Nature, now sought concealment. It made old people young and young people gay, to be abroad.

She had not often been on the Embankment, and the river was a variety to her. Without intruding on her thoughts, it attracted her eye. A full tide between prosperous banks always gives a sense of quietude and peace; but to May's mind the sense of peace did not seem of this world, but of the world beyond. There was a bounteous calm in that river which seemed to invite the weary. When the tide is out, and the sordid lower abutments of bridges and the bedraggled foreshore are visible, the river looks fit to be the friend of only outcasts and felons. But when it is full it seems to have risen up to one as a kind friend capable of assuaging present woes, and of wafting one securely to Elysian Fields.

As May walked along by the parapet, she thought she should like to lay herself down gently on the bosom of the water, and be carried calmly beyond the noises of the world. She had no thought of suicide; what she felt was merely a craving of her physical nature. It was parallel to the desire one experiences, when looking down from a high mountain, to launch oneself into air, and float above the valley below. She did not murmur against Heaven or revile Fate. She would have liked to be at rest; she longed to change utterly the ordinary experiences of life, even if death was the only alternative; but she had no intention or wish to compass her own death.

Big Ben struck seven. The sound startled her.

"That is the Parliament clock," she thought; "and he will often hear that sound when he has ceased to hear my voice for ever."

And then she forgot him for awhile and fell to pitying herself, until the tears rolled down her face under her veil, and she found herself at Blackfriars Bridge. This part of the town she knew nothing of. Whither should she go? All ways were alike to her. She kept on to the right, and crossed the bridge.

She had never been across any London bridge on foot before; she could not remember ever having been across the river at all, except in a train. She had never heard either her aunt or him speak about the Surrey side. It was best for her to go across the water, and to stay there.

To stay there! She had not thought of staying anywhere before; she had come away from home because she had made up her mind not to see Charlie again; but up to that moment she had not thought of staying away from home, or staying anywhere else. Before, leaving Tenby Terrace she had mechanically taken all the money out of her writing-case and put it in her purse. She always had much more money by her than young girls living in houses such as those in the Terrace; for she had an income which was absolutely her own, and her aunt had always insisted on her keeping a small bundle of bank-notes by her. Miss Traynor said: "You should always keep a little money by you; I do. You never know what is going to happen. A bank may break, or your lawyer may die, and you may not be able to get your money for a month, or maybe three months; and then, you see, what a fix you would be in! I do not think it safe to keep large sums of money in the house; but twenty or thirty or forty pounds can do no harm, and make you feel secure, for a time at least, against accident." Miss Traynor little thought, when she gave her niece this advice, that the money would in the end be used for putting space between her and the girl for whose welfare and happiness she would have laid down her life.

Now, for the first time. May realised the fact that it would be necessary for her to find some place in which she might live. She had been in her time very little from home, and felt miserably uncomfortable at the notion of having to take lodgings for herself in London. She had no plan, no scheme. She did not think of the future; she did not try to see a week in advance--she wished only to hide herself. She made no calculation as to how long she should be from home, how long her money would last. She had, like a pursued hare, the simple instinct of flight, with the desire for concealment; all else was absolutely indifferent to her. If she had her choice between life and death, she would have chosen the latter.

The idea of leaving London never crossed her mind. She had often heard that, for the purpose of concealment, there was no place so good as London. She had now been walking two hours, and all that time she had been putting space between her and Knightsbridge; and yet all around her were thousands of people, hundreds of vehicles hurrying up and down. There was no fear of anyone being able to track her through all those winding ways, all this streaming multitude.

It was necessary for her to get somewhere to sleep that night. She was now in the Kennington Road. The noise of the tramcars and omnibuses and cabs, and carts and vans and drays, almost overwhelmed her. She was beginning to feel tired. She turned into a quiet-looking side-street; up and down this street she walked more than once before she could make up her mind to knock at any door of a house in which she saw that lodgings were to be let. At last she selected a neat-looking house, with flower-pots on the window-sill and immaculate steps. She knocked. Yes, there were lodgings to be let in that house; would the lady walk in? She was shown into a clean, cheaply-furnished back parlour, which looked into a dark yard twenty feet square. It was the landlady herself who let in May. She was a stout, undersized, pleasant-looking woman of middle age. She had two bedrooms and a sitting-room to let. This was the sitting-room; the bedrooms were up-stairs. Would the lady like to see the bedrooms?--they were comfortable and well furnished. Would not the lady walk up? This was the better bedroom of the two, in the front; this was the smaller one in the back. What accommodation did the lady require? The gentleman could have breakfast and tea or supper in, and dinner of a Sunday. Oh, it wasn't for gentlemen, wasn't it? It was the lady herself? So sorry; but she never took lady lodgers--only gentlemen. Her servant would not stay if lady lodgers were admitted. It was very wrong in a servant to have such notions; but her servant was a very good one, and it was next to impossible to get a good servant, and she could not afford to lose this one. Good-afternoon.

May went down the whitened steps with a heavy heart. She had never tried to find lodgings before; she had not known there was any difficulty in the way of getting them. It was necessary, however, that she should try again. She looked at her watch, half in fear. Half-past seven. Not any time to be lost; it was getting late.

She selected another house in the same street. A tall thin woman, who suggested a remote connection with better days, and a present connection with a temper, opened the door. May's first question was: Did they accommodate lady lodgers in that house? They did. Would the lady like to see the room?

With a sigh of relief May went in. She explained that she wanted only one room--a bedroom. Very well. This way; this was the bedroom. The lady would dine out? Oh yes. May would have undertaken to do anything now, that she might be at liberty to lock the door, sit down by herself and cry. The rent was ten shillings a week, inclusive. May did not know that the room would have been dear at seven-and-six; and of what "inclusive" meant she had no idea. Was ten shillings a week satisfactory? Yes, perfectly. And the lady would pay a week's rent in advance to secure the room? May took out her purse and proffered a sovereign. And when did the lady wish to occupy the room? To-night--now. To-night! How could that be? Of course references should be exchanged. Did the lady know anyone in the immediate vicinity to whom a reference might be made? No, May knew no one in the vicinity. Was it--was it necessary there should be a reference? Oh, absolutely; all respectable houses require references. Ah, in that case May must try elsewhere.

"Well, I'm sure; just to think you fancied they'd take anyone into a respectable house without a reference!" cried the tall slim woman, in a tone of exasperation, as she allowed May to find the front door and let herself out.

She hurried out of that street; she had not the courage to try at any other house there. She thought she should not have the courage to try anywhere else. She had already thought of going to an hotel, but had dismissed the idea. She had a great fear of being discovered; and an hotel was too open. Besides, she could not bring herself to face an hotel alone; there was something repugnant to her feelings in being without a friend or protector in a house the front door of which was always kept open. Besides, who could tell but, by one of those coincidences there is no foreseeing, some acquaintance of hers might light on that very hotel, and meet her in one of the passages? But if people objected to ladies as lodgers, and if those who did not object to ladies would take no one in who could not give a reference, how could she hope to find a resting-place for her weary limbs, a covering for her aching head that night? She could give no reference; for to do so would be, of course, instantly to betray herself.

What was she to do now? Whither should she turn? In a little while it would be dark. It was dreadful to be alone in London, cut off from all friends, having no home, no roof to cover her, and find the shades of night coming on. How peaceful and secure now seemed that small house over there in Knightsbridge, where but a few hours ago she had seen him, had heard his great kind voice, had felt his strong protecting arm round her! She had but to hold up her hand, get into the nearest cab, and in an hour she would be safe under that protecting roof.

Should she go back? Those houses in which she had sought shelter were hideous in her eyes, and the women repulsively vulgar. Should she go back and throw herself at her aunt's feet, and cry herself into her aunt's forgiveness? No, no, that would never do. She had resolved to sacrifice herself for him she loved, and she would do so, no matter how great the pain, no matter how great the humiliation she should endure. In the sum of her great sacrifice, what did these mean houses, these vulgar women, count for? Nothing. Why should she make great difficulties out of small? She had had the courage to write that letter to him, to renounce her love, to give up the one dream of her young life: was she now going to blench when confronted by trivial details such as would not daunt one out of ten of the women moving round her, passing up and down this road? No. She had been brave in the great thing, she would be indifferent in the small. She would be brave. She would hold on. She would lie down in the road and die rather than go back, rather than imperil his future happiness by once more placing herself under the influence of his presence, which she felt certain would be too strong for any resolution she might make.

She once more found herself walking down a side street, looking up at the windows for a card. This was a much better street than the last one. The roadway was wider, and the houses more respectable and better kept. She was now glad she had not succeeded in getting a place in the former street.

This one looked much better, and as though the people who lived in the houses could not be so vulgar.

She went down all one side, and saw no card in any window. She thought she had discovered one at the opposite side, but she could not be quite sure. She crossed. Yes, there was a card in one window, in only one. She knocked. A servant opened the door. Did they take lady lodgers? Oh yes; would the lady be kind enough to step into the front room and see the mistress?

In the front room May found a little old widow sitting at work. She greeted the entrance of the young girl with a benevolent smile, and bade her be seated. May was delighted she had come so far. This woman was much superior to either of the others. She had not the look of common prosperity of the first, nor of broken-down respectability of the second. Fate may make a lady poor, but it never can make her shabby-genteel. Though she may sink to pauperism, she can never fall so low as gentility. A lady once is a lady for ever; and the little old widow before May was evidently not only a lady, but a kindly and considerate old soul as well. May resolved, if possible, to cast her lot here.

After a few preliminary words, the landlady said:

"Yes, my dear, I not only take in ladies, but I do not take in gentlemen. I know how hard ladies, who wish to be quiet, find it to get lodgings in London, and so I have made up my mind to take in no gentlemen."

"Oh, then," said May piteously, "I may stay with you, may I not?"

"Well, my dear," said the old woman smiling encouragingly, "that will be as you please, I daresay. I have no doubt we should get on together. Of course you would like to see the room; we have only one to be let."

She half rose from her chair.

"No, no," cried May. "Pray sit down. Do not disturb yourself. I am sure I shall like it."

"Then, my dear," said the old lady, smiling again, but looking curiously at the worn face and bright eyes and weary figure of this young girl, who was willing to take a room without seeing it, "there are, you know, a few business arrangements to be considered. We shall have to charge you seven shillings and sixpence a week for your room. You will dine in or out, as you please."

"I am sure I am very much obliged to you. I had no idea----" here she paused. She thought it just as well not to say any more.

The old lady looked at May again. She smiled, but there seemed to be something over-eager in this young girl.

"May I ask, do you belong to London?"

"Yes."

"Ah, I am glad of that. Then you will perhaps know the name of this gentleman. He is not the rector of our parish, but one of the Canons of St. Paul's."

She handed the girl a card.

"I do not know him," answered May, wondering what a Canon of St. Paul's could have to do with the matter. "I know his name very well. Is he a relative of yours?"

"No, my dear, no relative, but a good kind friend of my late husband. The Canon has done a great deal for me, and among other things he allows me to refer anyone to him who may want to know anything about me."

"It is very kind of him," said May, not knowing what to say, what was meant.

"So, my dear," said the old lady, "you may call upon him or write to him, as you please."

The widow was plainly perplexed by May's rejoinder.

"I!" cried May; "I call on him!"

"Yes, my dear. I suppose there will be plenty of time before you give me the pleasure of your company permanently. When do you wish the room to be ready for you?"

The girl did not yet understand what the old lady meant by reference to the Canon of St. Paul's; but she had a sickening sense that something was going wrong.

"If--if," she faltered, "you would let me, I should like to stay this evening. I--I am anxious to get some place this evening, now."

She felt her throat quite dry, and her voice husky,

"This evening, my dear; this evening! That is rather sudden. I am not sure we could manage that. And where are your things?"

"What things?" asked May, in a whisper.

"Your luggage, my dear."

"I have none."

"Well, then, give me the name and address of some of your friends in London."

"I cannot."

"Oh dear, dear, dear! I am very sorry, truly sorry for you, my child. But you have friends in London?" said the old lady, in a kindly tone.

May placed her hand on the back of the chair, and rose with unsteady limbs.

"I beg your pardon," she said, in a low broken voice, "I now understand what you mean. I have no luggage, and can give no reference. Thank you for your kindness. Good-evening!" and before the old lady had time to rise or speak, May had reached the outer door and gained the street.

"There must be something wrong," said the old lady to herself, "or she would not have been in such a hurry to run away. If she had only waited and told me all, I might have done something for her. She is young and very pretty. It's a thousand pities, whatever it is. I'm sorry she did not wait another minute. She took my breath away when she stood up. I thought she was going to make a scene. I did not intend her to go. I only wanted the address to write to her friends. There's something wrong, and it's a thousand pities, a thousand pities."