eserted; the tread of a
policeman echoed from the distance. But in spite of the bitter sky, two
people were sitting together on one of the benches--a young man and a
work-girl; they were speaking scarcely above a whisper. Gilbert averted
his face as he passed them, and for the moment his eyes had their
pain-stricken look.

Issuing into Westminster Bridge Road, he found himself once more amid a
throng. And before he had gone far he recognised a figure that walked
just ahead of him. It was Ackroyd; he was accompanied by a girl of whom
Gilbert had no knowledge--Miss Totty Nancarrow. They were talking in a
merry, careless way: Ackroyd smoked a cigar, and Totty walked with her
usual independence, with that swaying of the haunches and swing of the
hands with palm turned outwards which is characteristic of the London
work-girl. Her laugh now and then rose to a high note; her companion
threw back his head and joined in the mirth. Clearly Ackroyd was in a
way to recover his spirits.

At the junction of two ways they stopped. Gilbert stopped too, for he
did not care to pass them and be recognised. He crossed the road, and
from the other side watched them as they stood talking. Now they were
taking leave of each other. Ackroyd appeared to hold the girl's hand
longer than she liked; when she struggled to get away, he suddenly bent
forward and snatched a kiss. With a gesture of indignation she escaped
from him.

Gilbert had a desire to join Ackroyd, now that the latter was alone.
But as he began to recross the street, the young man moved on and
turned into a public-house. Gilbert again stopped, and, disregarding
the crowds about him, lost himself in thought. He determined at length
to go his way.

Mrs. Grail had supper ready, with some mince pies of her own making.

'Each lot I make,' she said, as they sat down, 'I say to myself they'll
be the last.'

'No, no, mother; we shall eat a good many together yet,' Gilbert
replied, cheerily. The wind had brought a touch of colour to his cheeks
and made his eyes glisten.

'Have you taken any upstairs?' he asked presently.

'No, my dear. Do you think I may?'

'Oh, I should think so.'

The old lady looked at him and grew thoughtful.

There was no work to rise to on the morrow. With a clear conscience
Gilbert could sit on into the still hours which were so precious to
him. And again, before going to rest, he stepped quietly from the house
to look at the upper windows.

CH