nt out into the air for a
free breath, and looked up into the glowing sky, yet was glad to go back
again to my machines, which I fancied would greet me with an unwonted
joy. But, as I passed towards the stairway, I glanced into one of the
lower rooms, where some of the clerks were writing. I fancied Mr.
Clarkson might be there. There were women employed in this room, and
suddenly one who was writing at a desk attracted my attention. I did not
see her face; but the impression that her figure gave me haunted me as I
passed on. Some one passing me saw my disturbed look.

"What have you seen? a ghost?" he asked.

"Who is writing in that room? Can you tell me?" I said.

"You know them all," was his answer, "except the new-comer, Miss Stuart.
Have not you heard the talk of her history,--how the father has failed
and died and all that, and how the daughter is glad enough to get work
under Mr. Clarkson's patronage?"

The bell was ringing that called me, and I could not listen to more. My
brain was whirling uncertainly, and I doubted if I ought to believe my
ears. I went back to my work more dazed and bewildered than ever in my
youthful days. I forgot the wonder of the morning. It was quite
outshone by the wonder of the afternoon. I longed for my hour of
release. I longed for a time for thought,--to learn whether what had
been told me could be true. When the time came, I hastened down-stairs;
but I found the door of the office closed. Its occupants had all gone. I
hastened through the village, turned back again, and on the bridge over
the little stream met Margaret Stuart. She was the same. It made no
difference what were her surroundings, she was the same; there was the
same wonderful glance, the same smile of repose. It made no difference
where or how I met her, she ruled me still. She greeted me with the same
air and manner as in her old home when I saw her first.

She told me afterwards of the changes and misfortunes of the past year,
of her desire for independence, and how she found she was little able to
uphold it herself.

"Some of my friends," she said, "were very anxious I should teach
singing,--I had such a delicious voice, which had been so well
cultivated. I could sing Italian opera-songs and the like. But I found I
could only sing the songs that pleased me, and it was doubtful whether
they would happen to suit the taste or the voice of those I should try
to teach. For, I must confess it, I have never cultivate