so persuasive, and yet so agonized
in its intensity. A conviction of the truth of his words seized upon
her as she listened,--that he was unhappy, that he needed her sympathy
for some purpose of his own, and yet that she herself had nothing to
do with his purpose. But what would Nan say if she consented--if she
acceded to such an extraordinary proposition--to appoint a meeting
with a stranger?

"It is life and death to me; remember that!" continued Mr. Dancy, in
that low, suppressed voice of agitation. "If you refuse on the score
of mere girlish propriety, you will regret it. I am sure of that.
Trust to your own brave heart, and let it answer for you. Will you
refuse this trifling act of mercy,--just to let me speak to you alone,
and tell you my story? When you have heard that, you will take things
into your own hands."

Phillis hesitated, and grew pale with anxiety; but the instincts of
her nature were stronger than her prudence. From the first she had
believed in this man, and felt interested in him and his mysterious
surroundings. "One may be deceived in a face, but never in a voice,"
she had said, in her pretty dictatorial way; and now this voice was
winning her over to his side.

"It is not right; but what can I do? You say I can help you."--And
then she paused. "To-morrow morning I have to take some work to Rock
Building. I shall not be long. But I could go on the beach for half an
hour. Nan would spare me. I might hear your story then."

She spoke rapidly, and rather ungraciously, as though she were
dispensing largess to a troublesome mendicant; but Mr. Dancy's answer
was humble in its intense gratitude.

"God bless you! I knew your kind heart was to be trusted There! I will
not come any farther. Good-night; good-night, a thousand thanks!" And,
before Phillis could reply, this strange being had left her side, and
was laying the cashmere shawl in Jeffreys's arms slowly and tenderly,
as though it were a child.

Phillis was glad that Dulce opened the door to her that night, for she
was afraid of Nan's questioning glance. Nan was tired, and had retired
early; and, as Dulce was sleepy too, Phillis was now left in peace.
She passed the night restlessly, walking up at all sorts of untimely
hours, her conscience pricking her into wakefulness. To her
well-ordered nature there was something terrifying in the thought that
she should be forced to take such a step.

"Oh, what would mother and Nan say?" was her one c