d herself to its habits in so far as she could respect them, and
where she could not, the restraint of her presence was recognized as an
influence towards better things.

At the Spences', one day in April, they met Seaborne. They had heard of
his being in London again (after a year mostly spent in Paris), but had
not as yet seen him. He was invited to visit them, and promised to do
so before long. A month or more passed, however, and the promise
remained unfulfilled. At Chelsea the same report was made of him; he
seemed to be living in seclusion.

In mid-May, as Miriam was walking by herself at a little distance from
home, she was overtaken by a man who had followed her over the heath.
When the step paused at her side, she turned and saw Reuben.

"Will you speak to me?" he said.

"Why not, Reuben?"

She gave him her hand.

"That is kinder than I hoped to find you. But I see how changed you
are. You are so happy that you can afford to be indulgent to a poor
devil."

"Why have you made yourself a poor devil!"

"Why, why, why! Pooh! Why is anything as it is? Why are you what you
are, after being what you were?"

It pained her to look at him. At length she discerned unmistakably the
fatal stamp of degradation. When he came to her two years ago, his face
was yet unbranded; now the darkening spirit declared itself. Even his
clothing told the same tale, in spite of its being such as he had
always worn.

"Where are you living?" she asked.

"Anywhere; nowhere. I have no home."

"Why don't you make one for yourself?"

"It's all very well for you to talk like that. Every one doesn't get a
home so easily.--Does old Mallard make you a good husband?"

"Need you ask that?" Miriam returned, averting her eyes, and walking
slowly on.

"You have to thank me for it, Miriam, in part."

She looked at him in surprise.

"It's true. It was I who first led him to think about you, and
interested him in you. We were going from Pompeii to Sorrento--how many
years ago? thirty, forty?--and I talked about you a great deal. I told
him that I felt convinced you could be saved, if only some strong man
would take you by the hand. It led him to think about you; I am sure of
it."

Miriam had no reply to make. They walked on.

"I didn't come to the house," he resumed presently, "because I thought
it possible that the door might be shut in my face. Mallard would have
wished to do so."

"He wouldn't have welcomed you; but you were f