age he is but a watchman on a railroad.  I was about to pour out my gratitude, when I remembered we were in the nineteenth century, and looking into his face, I fancied that something more substantial would be better.  I drew out my purse.  He was frankly delighted with what I gave him, saying only that it was too much, and we separated mutually pleased.

“I sauntered on, lingering by the way to avoid waiting at Creil; consequently, I was just able to procure my ticket and a paper of brioches at the buffet when the English train came in.  As I stood at the door, knowing that as soon as it moved off the Belgian train was due, whom should I see get out but Fred!  I thought he would re-enter in a moment, and placed myself so that he could not see me.  I was mistaken.  The train started, and mine puffed up:  there he was still.  In the crowd I hoped I should not be discovered, but as I stepped from the door his eyes met mine, and he rushed up to me with the exclamation, ’In the name of Heaven, how did you get here?  Was there an accident?  Are you hurt?  What is the matter?’

“It was singular how his voice unnerved me:  I could not say a word.  The crowd carried us with them, and he helped me into a car, sitting by me and recommencing his questions.  Then I stammered, ’You will be taken on if you do not get out:  there is nothing wrong.’

    “For answer he shut the door of the compartment, and said, ’I am
    going with you.  Now tell me how you come to be here?’

“I do not know why I should have given way when all danger was over—­I believe there is no parallel case in the life of any celebrated woman—­but I suppose I was tired out.  My anxiety and fright, a night spent on a hard board, the surprise of meeting Mr. Kenderdine,—­whatever it was, I leaned back in the corner of the seat, took out my handkerchief, and cried harder than I had ever done in my life before.  He was greatly alarmed, but, like a sensible man, waited until I became more composed, and when I was able to tell him, instead of blaming me or thinking I was stupid, he censured himself for not accompanying me.

“‘I did mean to ask your permission to do so, Miss Eleanor,’ he said slightly embarrassed, ’and I was prig enough to think you would allow it, but when you told me of your engagement I did not dare.  After you left I had a dread that something might happen, and I could not rest satisfied until I had made up my mind to come on and see that you had arrived safely.  I thought you would forgive me, as it is for the last time, and De Vezin need not be jealous, for he will have you for ever, while I—­’ Fred can be wonderfully pathetic.

“Then I made up my mind to undeceive him, as was my duty, you know.  I told him very gently that he was under a false impression.  I was not engaged:  my aunt had educated me for a purpose, and we both had quite determined