omething theatrical,
melodramatic in his words, but the stranger spoke so quietly that the
others never thought of it.

"But here I rest," he went on, "here is quietness, peace. A good lady
has been moved to build a Home of Rest for tired men, and I am tired.
You have not told me about this lady, Mr. Briarfield. She is a great
philanthropist, I suppose?"

"She is very kind to the poor," replied the young squire.

"And I am poor; I am in her Home of Rest. It is an experience. The place
is like heaven after London: therefore I owe a debt of gratitude to my
benefactress. Yes, and when I see her I will tell her so. But tell me,
why did she build this place?"

"I know of nothing except what the world knows. She was anxious to
befriend those whom such a place as this would help, so she built it.
She also keeps the house at Vale Linden open; that is, she invites all
sorts of people there as her guests. She has been a Lady Bountiful to
the district."

"Distributes tracts, and all that?"

"I do not know. She has never given me one."

"She is simply one of these 'viewy' women, then?"

"She must have views, certainly, else she would not have done what she
has."

Signor Ricordo laughed quietly.

"I think I see," he said presently.

"What do you see?"

"Her motives."

"What are they, then?" asked Briarfield almost angrily.

"Notoriety--and, shall we say, position?"

"Are you not judging without sufficient reason?" asked Herbert
Briarfield warmly. "You have never seen Miss Castlemaine."

"I am no longer a boy," said the other, with a sigh.

"What might that mean?"

"That I have seen women--in Paris, in Berlin, in Vienna, in Damascus,
Constantinople, Cairo, Bagdad, Calcutta. Yes, I have seen them--women of
all tongues, all nationalities. And everywhere they are the same."

"Well, and what is the sum total of your experience?"

"I would rather not tell you."

"Why? It is always well to know the truth."

"Mr. Briarfield, if there is one thing I am afraid of it is the truth.
For many years I have made it my business to keep my eyes from beholding
the truth; nevertheless, it always keeps thrusting itself upon
me--always. That is why I am a sad man."

"Perhaps you have only seen one side of life."

Again a look suggesting pain shot across the stranger's face, but he
still spoke quietly.

"Mr. Briarfield," he said, "I have even read the book which is to the
English people a text-book of religion. I fancy I