When I left my room, I found, on inquiry, that Mr. Clarkson was not in the building, and was to be away all day.  I went 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 cultivated my voice except for my own pleasure, and never for the sake of the art.  I did try to teach music a little while, and, oh, it was hopeless!  I remembered some of our old talks about drudgery, and thought it had been a happy thing for me, if I had ever learned how to drudge over anything.  What I mean is, I have never learned how to go through a monotonous duty, how to give it an inspiration which would make it possible or endurable.  It would have been easier to summon up all my struggling for the sake of one great act of duty.  I did not know how to scatter it over work day after day the same.  Worse than all, in spite of all my education, I did not know enough of music to teach it.”