For nearly ten years Ralph Waring had been a homeless wanderer, getting a living in a variety of ways. Of course things had gone well with him while he had money in his pocket, but when that had melted away his appreciative friends suddenly disappeared. Like other folks in that new country he had plenty of opportunities of getting on, but like so many others he wanted the top rung of the ladder first, and found that such a leap did not come within the bounds of possibility. Every bottom rung he was compelled to try proved too prosaic, and years were spent in becoming familiar with a whole series of bottom rungs.

All the letters he had sent to Phebe had been under cover to Stephen Collins; even the one Stephen Collins had himself placed in the desk had been directed to him. Why Ralph had done this it would be difficult to say. His motive may have been the wish to provide Phebe during his absence with a reliable helper, but it was very questionable if he had really sufficient regard for either of them to do that.

The letters ceased just as soon as his "castles in the air" came to grief. He could never bring himself to write to Phebe of defeat. He was once tempted to make up a story of good fortune, but had sufficient good sense left to know that should Fortune continue to frown upon him this would only add to his annoyance. No, it was better she should think him dead than poor.

It was three years since his illness came upon him. He struggled against it with a heroism that would have placed him on the top rung if it had been shown earlier and in other ways. Then a feeling of home-sickness came over him; or perhaps it was that he missed the tender ministry of loving hands.

But how was he to get home? There was no other way than to work his passage over, and that he must do at once before he got too weak to do so. A berth as assistant-steward was secured, and in a few hours after setting foot on English soil he found himself in the old country town of Hadley.

His first impulse was to go straight to Phebe and pour out his heart to her, with all its bitter disappointments. Then his usual cautious habit reasserted itself—he would first of all make inquiries.

After taking a very humble lodging he soon found out the position Phebe held in the town, and then his chagrin knew no bounds. He wished himself back again a hundred times over in the land of strangers—what a fool he had been! However, she should never have an opportunity of lording over him. "R. W." would stand for "Richard Wood" equally well as "Ralph Waring." A very old school-fellow had failed to recognise him, so it was not likely Phebe would. It was this strong belief in his changed appearance rendering his identity impossible that made him enter the shop. He quite chuckled over the way in which he had "done" Reynolds, and tried the experiment a second time. Reynolds was in the shop and again served him. As soon as he left the stolid look disappeared from Reynolds' face, and quick as lightning he despatched a shop-boy to follow "the tall, thin man with a cough" to see where he went. "Don't show yourself, though," was his parting injunction.

The lad did his "shadowing" in quite a professional manner, and returned with the answer: "63 Dutton Street."

"63 Dutton Street!" repeated Reynolds to himself. "Well, I never! Things get worse and worse! I mustn't tell Mrs. Colston that, the poor old dear! I won't let out he's been in again."

After Ralph Waring had made his second lot of purchases and paid his lodgings a week in advance, he had one solitary half-crown left. He had no watch or anything with him he could sell or pawn; possessing absolutely nothing but the thin, shabby clothes he stood up in. He turned the silver coin over in his hand, and muttered: "Only that between me and the workhouse!"

Day after day Nanna kept her secret from Phebe. How could she tell her! How could she bring such a double fold of gloom over her! And day after day she prayed for God's clear guidance.

At every opportunity she kept a stealthy watch over every customer who came into the shop, and all the day she was for ever listening for that hollow, rasping cough.

All this tension told upon her considerably. Phebe was quite certain she was not well, and she knew herself it was taking away her joy and breaking her peace. At last she pulled herself together, and decided she must carry the burden no longer. "It is too difficult a piece of work for me to do," she said to herself, "I must leave it all to God. If He wanted me to help in it He would have shown me the way. I'll just watch and see how He does it," and the joy and peace came back again.

If she had known of "63 Dutton Street," she would have seen the beginning of God's plans.

The knowledge soon came.

She was in the business early one morning, when all at once she felt impelled to whisper to Reynolds—

"Have you seen Ralph Waring again?"

Reynolds had no alternative but to answer "Yes."

"Did he come into the shop?"

Reynolds gave a solemn nod.

"Tell me all you know, Reynolds," she said, fixing her clear grey eyes on him; "don't keep anything back. I am quite prepared, for I feel sure all will come right."

And then Reynolds told her, first of all looking round to see if any one should be listening.

"He is staying at 63 Dutton Street," he whispered.

"63 Dutton Street!" she exclaimed, and then checked herself. "Why, that is where Mrs. Coates lives!" in a lower voice.

"Yes, he is lodging with her."

"Well! well!" She hardly knew what to say. Surely God had led Ralph there—but why?—why?

"Why? Why?" kept repeating through her brain as she went about her work.

That morning she received a letter from Bessie, in which that young lady said: "When are you coming to see me? Couldn't you come this afternoon?"

"Yes, I will," she said to herself. "Bessie's brain is younger than mine, and quicker. Perhaps she can tell me what I ought to do."

When Phebe knew of the intended visit, she said: "Well, I am glad! I do believe you are improving in your old age. Be sure and tell Bessie she has my permission to give you a good scolding for not going sooner."

"How little she dreams of what my real errand is!" whispered Nanna to herself. "I wonder if I am doing right in not telling her! But surely if I can keep trouble from her that is right! Surely she has suffered enough through Ralph Waring already without having any more! She thinks he is dead—'tis better so." And with that assurance she started on her journey.

"You blessed one!" exclaimed the excitable Bessie; "I have a good mind now you are here to lock you up like lavender, and never let you back again. Now I am going to get a high-style tea ready. If only I had been quite sure you were coming I would have bought a whole red-herring—they are the most economical things going, you only need one; you hand it all round the table, and each guest rubs his, or her, bread with it, and each one has all the delight of seeming to eat a whole bloater. However, as it is, we must stretch to sardines this time. David!"—peeping into the shop—"I'm not coming into the shop any more to-day, so if you can't manage to scrape along without me, you can put up the shutters at once."

"You see, Mrs. Colston," said David, "she is just the same Bessie as ever."

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Bessie, "if that isn't rich! Did you expect I should turn into somebody else?—say Polly Spriggs, or the Duchess of Marlborough!—which would you have preferred?"

But David had fled back into the shop.

It was during tea Nanna told her story—always the time for confidences.

"We had such a strange customer in the other day, Bessie. Guess who it was!"

"Was it one of the high levellers, or one of the low levellers?"

"He looked like one of the low levellers, as you call them; but he used to be——" Nanna's hands trembled so much she almost dropped her cup.

Bessie was quick to notice this. "Dear Mrs. Colston," she exclaimed, "you have some bad news to tell me! What is it?—Do tell me quickly!"

"The customer was Ralph Waring."

"Ralph Waring! And does the Little Missis know—did she see him?" and Bessie started up from her chair in her excitement.

"No; I want your advice. Reynolds has found out that he is lodging at 63 Dutton Street. Just fancy that!"

"63 Dutton Street!" repeated Bessie, quite bewildered.

"Yes; with Mrs. Coates. You know Mrs. Coates. Do you think I ought to tell her?"

"Tell Mrs. Coates?"

"No—the Little Missis, as you call her."

"Of course not. If his lordship does not choose to make himself known, why should you trouble her about him? She has had enough trouble with him already—at least, I think so."

"That is just how I have been thinking."

"Oh, dear, dear! Whatever in the world did he need to turn up again for! I wish to goodness I could run away with him, that I do!"

"What is that you are saying?" exclaimed David, looking in from the shop, with quite a dramatic expression on his face. "Who is it you are wanting to elope with now? I really must know!"

Amid both laughter and tears Nanna explained the situation.

"Well, if she can manage to run away with him," said David magnanimously, "I am quite willing. But how can you work it, my sweet queen Bess?"

"Ah, that's the difficulty," she sighed. "I shall have to put my thinking cap on."

"There is no doubt he is very ill," said pitying Nanna; "he has a dreadful cough."

"A consumptive cough?" asked David.

"Yes."

"Then may God help him! I know what that means. My father died of consumption in Warley Hospital."

"I have it!" exclaimed Bessie, "let's get him into Warley Hospital! At least he would be some distance away, and would be better treated than in lodgings. Oh, yes, I'll manage to run away with him after all, you see if I don't! I'll call and see Mrs. Coates, and if I hear her lodger cough, I'll offer to get him an indoor letter for Warley Hospital. I'll not show myself at all, of course. Mrs. Coates shall do the real elopement work; I'll only superintend."