derful maze of London, which
still seemed to her, in spite of her constitutional level-headedness,
like a vast electric light, casting radiance upon the myriads of men and
women who crowded round it. And here she was at the very center of it
all, that center which was constantly in the minds of people in remote
Canadian forests and on the plains of India, when their thoughts turned
to England. The nine mellow strokes, by which she was now apprised of
the hour, were a message from the great clock at Westminster itself. As
the last of them died away, there was a firm knocking on her own door,
and she rose and opened it. She returned to the room, with a look of
steady pleasure in her eyes, and she was talking to Ralph Denham, who
followed her.

"Alone?" he said, as if he were pleasantly surprised by that fact.

"I am sometimes alone," she replied.

"But you expect a great many people," he added, looking round him. "It's
like a room on the stage. Who is it to-night?"

"William Rodney, upon the Elizabethan use of metaphor. I expect a good
solid paper, with plenty of quotations from the classics."

Ralph warmed his hands at the fire, which was flapping bravely in the
grate, while Mary took up her stocking again.

"I suppose you are the only woman in London who darns her own
stockings," he observed.

"I'm only one of a great many thousands really," she replied, "though I
must admit that I was thinking myself very remarkable when you came in.
And now that you're here I don't think myself remarkable at all. How
horrid of you! But I'm afraid you're much more remarkable than I am.
You've done much more than I've done."

"If that's your standard, you've nothing to be proud of," said Ralph
grimly.

"Well, I must reflect with Emerson that it's being and not doing that
matters," she continued.

"Emerson?" Ralph exclaimed, with derision. "You don't mean to say you
read Emerson?"

"Perhaps it wasn't Emerson; but why shouldn't I read Emerson?" she
asked, with a tinge of anxiety.

"There's no reason that I know of. It's the combination that's
odd--books and stockings. The combination is very odd." But it seemed
to recommend itself to him. Mary gave a little laugh, expressive of
happiness, and the particular stitches that she was now putting into her
work appeared to her to be done with singular grace and felicity. She
held out the stocking and looked at it approvingly.

"You always say that," she said. "I assure you it's