its usual equable quality, and I am certain that Arnold
was not even aware of the tension upon his nerves. He fidgeted with the
tassel of his ceinture, and she watched his moving fingers. Presently
she spoke, quietly, in a different key.

"I sometimes think," she said, "of a child I knew in the other years.
She had the simplest nature, the finest instincts. Her impulses, within
her little limits, were noble--she was the keenest, loyalist little
person; her admirations rather made a fool of her. When I look at the
woman as she is now I think the uses of life are hard, my friend--they
are hard."

He missed the personal note; he took what she said on its merits as an
illustration.

"And yet," he replied, "they can be turned to admirable purpose."

"I wonder!" Hilda exclaimed brightly. She had turned down the leaf of
that mood. "But we are not cheerful--let us be cheerful. For my part, I
am rejoicing as I have not rejoiced since the first of December. Look at
this!"

She opened a small black leather bag and poured money out of it, notes
and currency, into her lap.

"Is it a legacy?"

"It's pay," she cried, with pleasure dimpling about her lips. "I have
been paid--we have all been paid! It's so unusual--it makes me feel
quite generous. Let me see. I'll give you this, and this, and this"--she
counted into her open palm ten silver rupees--"all those I will give you
for your mission. _Prends!_" and she clinked them together and held them
out to him.

He had risen to go, and his face looked grey and small. Something in him
had mutinied at the levity, the quick change of her mood. He could only
draw into his shell; doubtless he thought that a legitimate and
inoffensive proceeding.

"Thanks, no," he said, "I think not. We desire people's prayers, rather
than their alms."

He went away immediately, and she glossed over his scandalous behaviour
and said farewell to him as usual, in spite of the unusual look of
consciousness in her eyes. Then she went to her room and deliberately
loosened her garments and lay down upon her bed, first to sob like that
little child she remembered, and afterwards to think, until the world
came and knocked at her door and bade her come out of herself and earn
money.

CHAPTER XIII.

The compulsion which took Stephen Arnold to Crooked lane is hardly ours
to examine. It must have been strong, since going up to Mrs. Sand
involved certain concessions, doubtless intrinsically trifling