y, trying to look as though
he had forgotten something. The girl was still there, and met his ardent
glances unmoved: a fine girl, with large, dark eyes, and a complexion
which was the subject of much scandalous discussion among neighbouring
matrons.

"It must be something wrong with the glass, or else it's the bad light,"
said Mr. Catesby to himself; "no girl is so beautiful as that."

He went by again to make sure. The object of his solicitude was still
there and apparently unconscious of his existence. He passed very slowly
and sighed deeply.

"You've got it at last, Dick Catesby," he said, solemnly; "fair and
square in the most dangerous part of the heart. It's serious this time."

He stood still on the narrow pavement, pondering, and then, in excuse of
his flagrant misbehaviour, murmured, "It was meant to be," and went by
again. This time he fancied that he detected a somewhat supercilious
expression in the dark eyes--a faint raising of well-arched eyebrows.

His engagement to wait at Aldgate Station for the second-engineer and
spend an evening together was dismissed as too slow to be considered. He
stood for some time in uncertainty, and then turning slowly into the
Beehive, which stood at the corner, went into the private bar and ordered
a glass of beer.

He was the only person in the bar, and the land-lord, a stout man in his
shirt-sleeves, was the soul of affability. Mr. Catesby, after various
general remarks, made a few inquiries about an uncle aged five minutes,
whom he thought was living in Bashford's Lane.

[Illustration: "Mr. Catesby made a few inquiries."]

"I don't know 'im," said the landlord.

"I had an idea that he lived at No. 5," said Catesby.

The landlord shook his head. "That's Mrs. Truefitt's house," he said,
slowly.

Mr. Catesby pondered. "Truefitt, Truefitt," he repeated; "what sort of a
woman is she?"

"Widder-woman," said the landlord; "she lives there with 'er daughter
Prudence."

Mr. Catesby said "Indeed!" and being a good listener learned that Mrs.
Truefitt was the widow of a master-lighterman, and that her son, Fred
Truefitt, after an absence of seven years in New Zealand, was now on his
way home. He finished his glass slowly and, the landlord departing to
attend to another customer, made his way into the street again.

He walked along slowly, picturing as he went the home-corning of the
long-absent son. Things were oddly ordered in this world, and Fred
Truef