revent me doing that, can you? The streets are free to everybody."

"You are only making fun."

"That I am not. See how stern and solemn I look. I shall stand sentinel
and gaze up at your window on the chance of seeing your face. Will you
show yourself sometimes to comfort me?"

"No."

"I'm sure you will."

"I'd better promise to write the letter--"

"There now, that's a point for me!"

"Oh, don't make me laugh."

"Point number two--for you have been crying, Miss Winifred!"

"I?"

"Yes, I'm sorry to say. Oh, I only wish--"

"How do you know my name?"

"What, the 'Winifred' and the 'Bartlett?' Winifred was always one of my
favorite names for a girl, and you look the name all through. Well,
Fowle and I were taken to the station-house last night, and in the
course of the inquiry I heard your name, of course."

"Did they do anything to you for knocking down Mr. Fowle?"

"No, no. Of course, they didn't do anything to me. In fact, they seemed
rather pleased. Were you anxious, then, about me?"

"I was naturally anxious, since it was I who--"

"Ah, now, don't spoil it by giving a reason. You were anxious, that is
enough; let me be proud, as a recompense. And now I want to ask you two
favors, one of them a great favor. The first is to tell me all you know
about this Fowle. And the second--why you look so sad and have been
crying. May we walk on a little way together, and then you will tell
me?"

They walked on together, and for a longer time than either of them
realized. Winifred was rather bewitched. Carshaw was something of a
revelation to her in an elusive quality of mind or manner which she in
her heart could only call "charming."

She spoke of life at Brown, Son & Brown's, in Greenwich Village. She
even revealed that she had been crying because of dark clouds which had
gathered round her of a sudden, doubts and fears for which she had no
name, and because of a sort of dream the previous night in which she had
seen a man's Indian face, and heard a hushed, grim voice say: "She must
be taken out of New York--she is the image of her mother."

"Ah! And your mother--who and where is she?" asked Carshaw.

"I don't know. I can't tell. I never knew her," answered Winifred
droopingly, with a shake of her head.

"And as to your father?"

"I have no father. I have only my aunt."

"Winifred," said Carshaw solemnly, "will you consider me your friend
from this night?"

"You are kind. I trust you," she murmu