A farewell look at the last place in which she had seen Kitty tempted her to indulge in a moment of delay.  Her eyes rested on the turn in the path at which she had lost sight of the active little figure hastening away to plead her cause.  Even in absence, the child was Sydney’s good angel still.  As she turned away to follow the path that had been shown to her, the relief of tears c ame at last.  It cooled her burning head; it comforted her aching heart.  She tried to walk on.  The tears blinded her—­she strayed from the path—­she would have fallen but for a hand that caught her, and held her up.  A man’s voice, firm and deep and kind, quieted her first wild feeling of terror.  “My child, you are not fit to be by yourself.  Let me take care of you—­let me comfort you, if I can.”

He carried her back to the seat that she had left, and waited by her in merciful silence.

“You are very young to feel such bitter sorrow,” he said, when she was composed again.  “I don’t ask what your sorrow is; I only want to know how I can help you.”

“Nobody can help me.”

“Can I take you back to your friends?”

“I have no friends.”

“Pardon me, you have one friend at least—­you have me.”

“You?  A stranger?”

“No human creature who needs my sympathy is a stranger.”

She turned toward him for the first time.  In her new position, she was clearly visible in the light.  He looked at her attentively.  “I have seen you somewhere,” he said, “before now.”

She had not noticed him when they had passed each other at Sandyseal.  “I think you must be mistaken,” she answered.  “May I thank you for your kindness? and may I hope to be excused if I say good-night?”

He detained her.  “Are you sure that you are well enough to go away by yourself?” he asked anxiously.

“I am quite sure!”

He still detained her.  His memory of that first meeting at the seaside hotel reminded him that he had seen her in the company of a man.  At their second meeting, she was alone, and in tears.  Sad experience led him to form his own conclusions.  “If you won’t let me take care of you,” he said, “will you consider if I can be of any use to you, and will you call at that address?” He gave her his card.  She took it without looking at it; she was confused; she hardly knew what to say.  “Do you doubt me?” he asked—­sadly, not angrily.

“Oh, how can I do that!  I doubt myself; I am not worthy of the interest you feel in me.”

“That is a sad thing to say,” he answered.  “Let me try to give you confidence in yourself.  Do you go to London when you leave this place?”

“Yes.”

“To-morrow,” he resumed, “I am going to see another poor girl who is alone in the world like you.  If I tell you where she lives, will you ask her if I am a person to be trusted?”

He had taken a letter from his pocket, while he was speaking; and he now tore off a part of the second leaf, and gave it to her.  “I have only lately,” he said, “received the address from a friend.”