There was a little humorous smile about his mouth.  But his eyes were serious and pleading.

“When shall I know that you are old and decrepit?” he asked.

She was not quite sure.  She thought it would be when her hair was grey—­or rather white.  She had been informed by experts that her peculiar shade of hair went white, not grey.

“I shall ask you to marry me when your hair is white,” he said.  “May I?”

It did not suggest any overwhelming impatience.  “Yes,” she answered.  “In case you haven’t married yourself, and forgotten all about me.”

“I shall keep you to your promise,” he said quite gravely.

She felt the time had come to speak seriously.  “I want you to marry,” she said, “and be happy.  I shall be troubled if you don’t.”

He was looking at her with those shy, worshipping eyes of his that always made her marvel at her own wonderfulness.

“It need not do that,” he answered.  “It would be beautiful to be with you always so that I might serve you.  But I am quite happy, loving you.  Let me see you now and then:  touch you and hear your voice.”

Behind her drawn-down lids, she offered up a little prayer that she might always be worthy of his homage.  She didn’t know it would make no difference to him.

She walked with him to Euston and saw him into the train.  He had given up his lodgings and was living with her father at The Pines.  They were busy on a plan for securing the co-operation of the workmen, and she promised to run down and hear all about it.  She would not change her mind about Birmingham, but sent everyone her love.

She wished she had gone when it came to Christmas Day.  This feeling of loneliness was growing upon her.  The Phillips had gone up north; and the Greysons to some relations of theirs:  swell country people in Hampshire.  Flossie was on a sea voyage with Sam and his mother, and even Madge had been struck homesick.  It happened to be a Sunday, too, of all days in the week, and London in a drizzling rain was just about the limit.  She worked till late in the afternoon, but, sitting down to her solitary cup of tea, she felt she wanted to howl.  From the basement came faint sounds of laughter.  Her landlord and lady were entertaining guests.  If they had not been, she would have found some excuse for running down and talking to them, if only for a few minutes.

Suddenly the vision of old Chelsea Church rose up before her with its little motherly old pew-opener.  She had so often been meaning to go and see her again, but something had always interfered.  She hunted through her drawers and found a comparatively sober-coloured shawl, and tucked it under her cloak.  The service was just commencing when she reached the church.  Mary Stopperton showed her into a seat and evidently remembered her.  “I want to see you afterwards,” she whispered; and Mary Stopperton had smiled and