"Who I am?" She looked up and answered quickly, "Why, I'm nobody."

"I wish I knew about you, I feel as if you were made for something uncommon."

She was amused, a smile flickered in her eyes. "Well, at present," she said with the frankness which was one of her chief characteristics, "I have a typewriting office near Westbourne Grove."

It gave him almost a shock, though he hardly showed it at all.

"How did that come about?"

The hotel came in sight, there were lights here and there in the windows.

"It's getting late," she said. "I wonder what they think-if they noticed."

He

"Again-what does it matter?" stopped and faced her. She looked back at him bravely, but half afraid.

"Everything matters to a woman."

"And to a man," he answered, as if against his will, "when he meets a woman like you."

"Oh! Don't," she said, almost as if

The atmosphere had changed in a moment, any sense of enchantment had vanished altogether, they were at the mercy of human facts; but perhaps they were as dangerous.

"You-at the head of an office?"
"Yes, my own office-I invented it."
"Are you there all by yourself?"
"No, I have two clerks and an idiot."
"An idiot!"

"She is the pupil, but I call her that because she can't spell-or do anything else, as a matter of fact-it's rather horrid of me, for she's ill now and at home with her mother."

"And the clerks?" He was too bewildered by this sudden descent to do anything but ask questions.

"One is at Yarmouth for her holiday, and the other is in charge of the office." "Do you live there?"

"No, I go home before dinner and I come away after breakfast in the morning. It's splendid!" He always liked the expression with which she looked up and said the word. "You feel as if you have a right to live when you do some work." She got up and turned toward the hotel again. "I knew you were a fine creature," he said—almost fervently.

She disliked being called a creature, even a fine one. "I don't see anything fine in it," she answered. "I told you I was nobody and I am."

"You are much more somebody than I thought." They trudged on in silence.

The night gathered closer, intensifying the whiteness of the snow beyond. There seemed to be something at stake between them something held in the balance; in

"I think you adorable," he said it with all his heart.

They stopped at the door of the hotel. "I shall stay out a little longer-to-morrow we shall meet," his voice trembled a little.

She gave a little nod of assent and he turned away. She looked after him till he had vanished in the dimness. There was a seat outside the door, she pulled the white wrap closer round her and sat down. A tall woman, a certain Mrs. Streatly-one of the cats, Geraldine had called hercame to the door and looked up at the sky.

"I never understand why you like these cold places," she said to some one who was evidently behind. "The sky looks as if it might be frosty."

The stars are wonderful," a girl's voice said.

Geraldine, her heart full of a strange happiness, got up to go in. She wanted to be alone, to dream of to-morrow. Mrs. Streatly's tall figure filled the doorway. "Is Mr. Wootten an old friend of yours?" she asked, looking at her as if she were an inferior.

"Mr. Wootten?" Geraldine resented the voice and the manner, and she was taken aback and looked bewildered for a moment. Of course she meant the stranger. "Oh, yes-he is a friend of mine. Do you know him?"

"No, but I've seen him before; his wife serves on a committee with me."

"His wife does-" She felt as if snow from the highest peak were being laid on her heart.

Mrs. Streatly looked at her sharply. "You know her too, I suppose?”

the other woman-to his wife-not that she would ever know anything, of course. It was she, Geraldine, who was insulted and

hunted woman.

"Perhaps he came here to meet her," Mrs. Streatly thought. "I knew there was something curious about her."

Geraldine sat for an hour in her room in the dark, facing things squarely. But there was only one thing to do, and she meant to do it. She crawled down to the Bureau, luckily no one was there to listen. "I want to go away very early to-morrow morning," she said. "To catch the nine o'clock train from Brigue, how long will it take to get there?"

wouldn't. But he was the sort of man she liked, she couldn't help it, she did—she did he was so tall and fair and quiet and he didn't talk too much. She loved his leisurely air, the suspicion of shambling in his gait, the look in his eyes, and she could have sworn-but no, all the time he had a wife at home, or somewhere, heaven knew where. She would never see him again. She felt so cheapened and insulted. She wished she hadn't told him about the office; but it wasn't that, it wasn't that at all, he had seemed to like her better for it. It was after knowing about it that he had

"That will do I shall be ready." "The mule that brought that gentleman up is going down soon after five."

"It can take my luggage. Is any one else going away early?"

"Not that I know of."

"Thank heaven!" she thought and went slowly upstairs. She stood by the window and had it out with herself, clasping her hands at the back of her neck. "Oh," she said with a little moan, "I could die and like it."

Then she packed her pilgrim basket.

V

THE way down seemed endless and the stones were dreadful. She had not felt them nearly so much going up; but she had not been so tired then; now she was worn out. And she was so cold, a little icy breeze seemed to follow her, it put pain into head and throat; but she strode on: she wanted to get away from the snow, it was her great chance of forgetting.

She wasn't unhappy, she was only indignant, and desperately angry. Yet after all he hadn't done any thing very dreadful, he hadn't said anything to resent-except that she was adorable. In her heart she heard his voice again. It thrilled her, and for a moment she told herself that it was true, it must be, she felt it, knew it. He couldn't have pretended so well, she didn't believe that any man could. But it wasn't fair to

told him precisely where the office was or he might have looked for it, and she could never bear to see him again—and yet it would be dreadful never-never to do so. She was a fool-"Oh, Geraldine Lawton, you are a fool," she said to herself. "He's the sort of man I should have liked to be friends with-but it never does. It's no good if a man's married, besides I hate the thought of her so I wonder what she's like-if she's pretty?" She remembered her own face in the glass last night, she had felt a little proud of herself as she entered the dining-room; she knew that he had been taken a little by surprise, and she was certain that he had liked her; it had looked out of his eyes, it had been in his voice. Perhaps his wife was horrid or didn't care for him, but it was no good, she existed, and there was an end of it.

If only that stupid mule-boy wouldn't stop so often, she thought. He insisted on eating his breakfast at one point-a hunk of dry bread and a bit of hard cheese. He said the mule was tired and must wait-all stories of course-mules didn't get tired going down: besides if it did, what then? She was tired. No one in the world could be as tired as she was. She hadn't slept all night, had got up so early, the coffee had been disgusting and tasted of burnt wood, she had had nothing at all to eat; and yet she could go on, why couldn't the stupid mule-boy? She wondered what time he― there was only one he in the world-would get up. If he would look for her at breakfast and wonder why she was so late? Of

course he would ask at last. Then he would hear that she had gone hours before -so it would be no good trying to catch her up. He wouldn't know that she had heard who he was. He would think she didn't care to go to the Eggishorn, that she had changed her mind; that was what she wanted him to think. That horrid Mrs. Streatly would tell the other people; and they would think—but what did it matter what they thought? She would never see them again, and she was thankful, thankful that she hadn't known them.

"If you would only hurry," she said, turning suddenly upon the mule-boy. They were nearly down but they seemed to have been hours; and she had forgotten to wind up her watch and didn't know the time. Suddenly there was a noise in the distance beyond, a rumbling that came nearer and nearer-it was the train that she had meant to go by from the Brigue station below. It was too late to catch it. She turned to the boy, but her French was not equal to heap the wrath she desired upon his unkempt head; and the mule, with her pilgrim basket and the hold-all, jogged on considering every step it took.

Brigue at last and the mule-boy dismissed.

She stood beside her luggage at the station and heard to her relief that, though the express had gone, there was a slow train in a couple of hours time. Then Geraldine's youth and healthy appetite asserted themselves. "I hate him," she said with a sigh," and there's an end of that, and I'll go and have some breakfast."

There were little tables outside the door of the hotel opposite the station; she sat down and consoled herself with coffee and an omelette. She thought of the omelette at Clarens and snorted a little. "I couldn't have believed he was married—he didn't look it," she thought.

She felt much better when she had breakfasted. She wondered what she would do with herself next, there was the month's holiday to be finished. She didn't want to go far afield, she “couldn't run to it," and nothing should make her go tamely home. She must do something. Her tickets took her back to Clarens-she wasn't going to stop there-and via Lausanne to England. She thought of the two black beetles and decided not to stay at Lausanne again,

though there were other hotels, of course. "A woman's no good alone," she said to herself, and then indignantly denied it. "Yes, she is. She is much better alone, men are horrid."

She had still an hour to wait before the train started. She determined to go for a walk. Then suddenly there was the excitement of the diligence for the Simplon Pass

for all this occurred three years ago and the tunnel was not finished. She saw it made ready and the passengers take their places and depart. It would have been splendid to go too, she told herself—without the fervor with which she would have said it yesterday—but it was impossible, for funds had to be considered. She remembered a little picturesque hotel near Chillon, right down at the edge of the lakeshe had stopped to look at it on her way to the castle. There was a willow tree in the garden-which went down to the water's edge—and a virginia creeper turning red ran up the side of the house. She would go and try to stay there. It would be very quiet and-"No, thank you, no more promiscuous acquaintances for me,' but she would take long, lovely walks. If she still hated him enough, she would go up to Glion again and walk back by the Gorge du Chaudron-it had looked so beautiful. Then suddenly she remembered that her letters would go on to Bel Alp, if she didn't intercept them at Brigue. She hurried to the post-office, for she had only a quarter of an hour left now, and after some delay came away with a couple in her hand. She read one as she walked back to the station. It made her heart ache and all thoughts of self vanished: she saw a poor little genteel home at Shepherd's Bush and a woman crying-oh, it was dreadful! What could be done?

"I'm glad I've found you-to say goodby at any rate." This was in the station.

She looked up, the fair man was standing beside her. Geraldine pulled herself together, but words were difficult-she was taken by surprise and the news in her letter had put a sob in her throat.

"Why did you go away so early?" "I had arranged it yesterday afternoon.” "Yes-but last night you promised to go to the Eggishorn!"

"I didn't want to," she managed to give a brave little smile; "I changed my mind."

"She took me for some one else, I expect." "How absurd!" The whole expression of her face had changed. "But I must go." She was in the carriage and the train was all but starting. "I was very stupid," she said regretfully.

In a moment he had jumped in and closed the door.

"Oh, but you mustn't come," she said. "Mayn't I?"

"Think of the unpaid bill and the open bags!"

There was the sound of a horn-the train started.

"They can wait till this evening."

Are you sure you are not Mr. Woot