compelled to tell Othello they must turn. He complied without pausing in the story. Her next interruption was more serious. 

 "Don't you write?" she suddenly exclaimed. 

 "Write what?" 

 "Things for magazines." 

 "I wish I did! The magazine at school was the only one I ever tried my hand for. Who told you I wrote?" 

 "Mrs. Ringrose has shown things to my father, and he thought them very good. It only just struck me that what you are telling me would make such a capital magazine sketch. But it was very rude of me to interrupt. Please go on." 

 "No, Miss Lowndes, I've gone on too long as it is! Here have I been talking away about Africa as though nothing had happened while I was there; and it's only three days since I landed and found out—everything!" 

 His voice was strangely altered: the shame of forgetting, the pain of remembering, saddened and embittered every accent. Miss Lowndes, however, who had so plainly shared his enthusiasm, as plainly shrank from him in his depression. Harry was too taken up with his own feelings to notice this. Nor did he feel his companion's silence; for what was there to be said? 

 "You should take to writing," was what she did say, presently. "You have a splendid capital to draw upon." 

 "Do you write?" 

 "No." 

 "It is odd you should speak of it. There's nothing I would sooner do for a living—and something I've got to do—only I doubt if I have it in me to do any good with my pen. I may have the capital, but I couldn't lay it out to save my life." 

 He spoke wistfully, however, as though he were not sure. And now Miss Lowndes seemed the more sympathethic for her momentary lapse. She was very sure indeed. 

 "You have only to write those things down as you tell them, and I'm certain they would take!" 

 "Very well," laughed Harry, "I'll have a try—when I have time. I suppose you know what your father promises me?" 

 "No, indeed I don't," cried Miss Lowndes. 

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