short distance timidly. A young man of unhealthy countenance, with a red pimple on the side of his nose, but not otherwise ill-looking. He was clad with propriety—stove-pipe hat, diagonal frockcoat, grey trousers, and he walked with a springy gait. 

 “Miss Madden—” 

 He had ventured, with perturbation in his face, to overtake Monica. She stopped. 

 “What is it, Mr. Bullivant?” 

 Her tone was far from encouraging, but the young man smiled upon her with timorous tenderness. 

 “What a beautiful morning! Are you going far?” 

 He had the Cockney accent, but not in an offensive degree; his manners were not flagrantly of the shop. 

 “Yes; some distance.” Monica walked slowly on. 

 “Will you allow me to walk a little way with you?” he pleaded, bending towards her. 

 “I shall take the omnibus at the end of this street.” 

 They went forward together. Monica no longer smiled, but neither did she look angry. Her expression was one of trouble. 

 “Where shall you spend the day, Mr. Bullivant?” she asked at length, with an effort to seem unconcerned. 

 “I really don’t know.” 

 “I should think it would be very nice up the river.” And she added diffidently, “Miss Eade is going to Richmond.” 

 “Is she?” he replied vaguely. 

 “At least she wished to go—if she could find a companion.” 

 “I hope she will enjoy herself,” said Mr. Bullivant, with careful civility. 

 “But of course she won’t enjoy it very much if she has to go alone. As you have no particular engagement, Mr. Bullivant, wouldn’t it be kind to—?” 

 The suggestion was incomplete, but intelligible. 

 “I couldn’t ask Miss Eade to let me accompany her,” said the young man gravely. 

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