“That is very good of you,” said Katherine, looking earnestly at him.  “Where is it—­near this?”

“No; a long way off.  There are plenty of such places in every direction.  I have just come from a home for poor old women, childless widows, sickly spinsters, who cannot work, and have no one to work for them.  If you have any spare time, it would be a great kindness to go and read to them now and then.  The lees of such lives are often sad and tasteless.”

“I should be glad to help in any way,” said Katherine, coloring, “but just now I belong (temporarily) to my uncle, who is old, and requires a good deal of reading—­and care.”

“Ah, I see your work is cut out for you:  that, of course, is your first duty.”

The conversation then flowed on easily about street arabs and the various missions for rescuing them, about soldiers’ homes, and other kindred topics.  Katherine was much interested, and taken out of herself; she was quite sorry when on approaching Legrave Crescent she felt obliged to pause, with the intention of dismissing him.  He understood.  “Do you live near this?” he asked.

“Yes, quite near.”

“May I bring you some papers giving you an account of my poor old women?”

“I should like so much to have them,” said Katherine.  “But my uncle is rather peculiar.  He does not like to be disturbed; he does not like visitors; he was vexed because my sister-in-law and the children came to-day.”

“I understand, and will not intrude.  But should you be able and willing to help these undertakings, Colonel Ormonde will always know my address.  He honors me still with his friendship, though he thinks me a moon-struck idiot.”

“Because you are good.  The folly is his,” said Katherine, warmly.  Then she bowed, Mr. Payne lifted his hat again, and they parted, not to meet for many a day.

When Mrs. Knapp opened the door she looked rather grave, but Katherine’s mind was so full of her encounter with Gilbert Payne that she did not notice it, seeing which, Mrs. Knapp said, “I’m glad you have come in, miss.”

“Why?” with immediate apprehension.  “Is my uncle ill?”

“He is not right, miss.  I took him up his cup or tea and slice of dry toast about five, and he was lying back, as he often does, asleep, as I thought, in the chair.  I says, ‘Here’s your tea, sir,’ but he made no answer, and I spoke again twice without making him hear; then I touched his hand; it was stone cold; so I got water and dabbed his brow, when he sat up all of a sudden, and swore at me for making him cold and damp with my—­I don’t like to say the word—­rags.  Then he shivered and shook like an aspen; but I made up the fire and popped a spoonful of brandy in his tea—­he never noticed.  But he kept asking for you, miss.  I think he doesn’t know he was bad.”

Katherine hastened to her uncle, greatly distressed at having been absent at the moment of need.  In her eagerness she committed the mistake of asking how he felt now, and received a tart reply.  There was nothing the matter with him, nothing unusual—­only his old complaint, increasing years and infirmity; still he was not to be treated like a helpless baby.