She had got as far as writing a reply, but could never quite bring herself to post it.

A miserable Sunday had urged her to send it to its destination; the chance purchase of a Sunday paper decided the letter’s, and, incidentally, her own fate.  In it she read how, owing to threatened disturbance on the Indian frontier, Sir Archibald Windebank, D.S.O., would shortly leave Aldershot by S.S.  Arabia with a reinforcing draft of the Rifle Brigade.

Mavis tore up her letter, to write another, which she addressed to the steamer which was to carry him the greater part of his long journey.  She did not give her address; she told him how she believed it would be for his advantage not to encumber his noble career with concern for her.  She had added that, if it were destined for them to meet, nothing would give her greater pleasure than to see him again.  She ended by wishing him God-speed, a safe return, a successful and happy life.  As the days passed, with all the indignities and anxieties attending the quest for employment, the girl’s thoughts more and more inclined to Melkbridge.  She longed to breathe its air, tread its familiar ways, steep herself in the scarcely awakened spirit of the place.  She constantly debated in her mind whether or not she should write to Mr. Devitt to ask for employment.  She told herself how, in doing what she had resolved upon doing only in the last extremity, she was giving no more hurt to her pride than it received, several times daily, in her hopeless search for work.  A startling occurrence had put the fear of London into her heart and decided her to write to Melkbridge.  She had been walking down Victoria Street, raging with anger at the insult that a rich photographer had offered her, to whom, in reply to an advertisement, she had applied for work, when her attention was attracted by a knot of people gathered about a hospital nurse, a girl, and a policeman.

The nurse, a harsh, forbidding-looking woman, was endeavouring to coax the girl into a waiting cab.  The girl was excitedly appealing for release to the policeman, to the knot of spectators, to passers-by.  When anyone displayed a sign of active interest in the matter, the nurse had put her finger to her forehead to signify that her charge was insane.

Mavis was about to avoid the gathering by crossing the road, when she caught a glimpse of the girl’s face, to recognise it as belonging to Miss Meakin.  Wondering what it could mean, she hastened to her old acquaintance, who, despite her protests, was being urged towards the cab.

“It’s all a mistake.  Let me go!  Oh! won’t anyone help?” Miss Meakin had cried as Mavis reached her side.

“What is it?  What has happened?” asked Mavis.

“It’s you:  it’s you!  Thank Heaven!” cried Miss Meakin.

“What has happened?  I insist on knowing,” Mavis had asked, as she glanced defiantly at the forbidding-looking nurse.

“It’s not a nurse.  It’s a man.  I know he is.  He’s followed me, and now he’s trying to get me away,” sobbed the girl.