aid the man was serious, grave to
a fault; but when he smiled, it was the face of youth--ardent, eager,
irresponsible--that the beholder saw before him.

It was a queer, baffling, contradictory face altogether. Only one thing
about it was certain, and that was written so plainly thereon that even
a child might read.

It was a face one could trust. Whatever might be the nature of the
tragic experience which had whitened the crisp locks and drawn the heavy
lines on the broad brow, there was something so gentle, so
straightforward, so kindly about the whole man that none could doubt his
sincerity, his trustworthiness. And side by side with the lines drawn by
sorrow there were other lines betokening laughter, those fine lines at
the corners of the eyes which are born from mirth, and even though they
take away from youth's first unlined smoothness, give value and
perspective to the countenance.

For the rest, he was fairly tall, though he stooped somewhat; and he
walked always with a quick, impetuous step, until such times as memory,
or some other quality, came to life, and gave a queer, dragging effect
to his usually swift tread.

"Well?" It was the host who spoke, and Barry recalled his scattered
thoughts with an effort and remembered the cause on which he was
enlisted.

"Well, it's about Rose's wife that I want to speak to you." Barry looked
searchingly at his friend, and reading in the bright eyes nothing of the
cheap cynicism with which some men might have greeted the announcement,
he went on quickly. "The fact is, she wants someone to give her a
helping hand."

"Someone--apart from her husband?"

"Yes. You see, she's only a kid and a jolly pretty one. Looks like a
schoolgirl----?"

"Stay a moment." Herrick laid down his pipe. "Is Mrs. Rose a little dark
girl, with very bright eyes and a lot of black hair?"

"That's she. You've met her, then?"

"Well, not exactly. Fact is, I have seen a young woman answering to that
description wandering on the towing-path early in the morning once or
twice; and I was a little puzzled to know who she might be."

"Well, that's Mrs. Rose. Now the fact is"--Barry grew red suddenly as he
realized that his interference was quite unauthorized--"I think she
wants a friend, someone to look after her a bit."

"Why? Is she ... er ... what _is_ she?"

"She is very young." Barry spoke deliberately now, having made up his
mind to proceed. "And although she is a perfect little lady i