I,' replied Ackroyd. 'Just drink a drop and you'll be all right.
I'll see you home. You feel better, don't you?'

Yes, she felt better, though her head ached miserably. Soon she was
able to walk, and longed to hasten away. The landlady let her out by
the private door, and Ackroyd went with her.

'Will you take my arm?' he said, speaking very gently, and looking into
her face with eloquent eyes. 'I'm rare and glad I happened to be there.
I heard you singing from downstairs, and I asked, Who in the world's
that? I know now what Mr. Boddy means when he talks so about your
voice. Won't you take my arm, Miss Trent?'

'I feel quite well again, thank you,' she replied. 'I'd no business to
be there, Mr. Ackroyd. Lyddy 'll be very angry; she can't help hearing.'

'No, no! she won't be angry. You tell her at once. You were with Totty
Nancarrow, I suppose? Oh, it'll be all right. But of course it isn't
the kind of place for you, Miss Trent.'

She kept silence. They were walking through a quiet street where the
only light came from the gas-lamps. Ackroyd presently looked again into
her face.

'Will you come out to-morrow?' he asked, softly.

'Not to-morrow, Mr. Ackroyd.' She added: 'If I did I couldn't come
alone. It is better to tell you at once, isn't it? I don't mind with my
sister, because then we just go like friends; but I don't want to have
people think anything else.'

'Then come with your sister. We _are_ friends, aren't we? I can wait
for something else.'

'But you mustn't, Mr. Ackroyd. It'll never come. I mean it; I shall
never alter my mind. I have a reason.'

'What reason?' he asked, standing still.

She looked away.

'I mean that--that I couldn't never marry you.'

'Don't say that! You don't knew what I felt when I heard you singing.
Have you heard any harm against me. Thyrza? I haven't always been as
steady a fellow as I ought to be, but that was before I came to know
you. It's no good, whatever you say--I can't give up hope. Why, a man
'ud do anything for half a kind word from you. Thyrza (he lowered his
voice), there isn't anyone else, is there?'

She was silent.

'You don't mean that? Good God! I don't know what'll become of me if I
think of that. The only thing I care to live for is the hope of having
you for my wife.'

'But you mustn't hope, Mr. Ackroyd. You'll find someone much better for
you than me. But I can't stop. It's so late, and my head aches so. Do
let me go, please.'

He made a