"I am very sorry too; but of course your professional duties must take precedence of everything else. Good night, and god-speed to you," said Margaret Ruysdale, sculptor, with a smile, the first she had given him. Her smiles were not plentiful, and this one was to the unwilling Samaritan like a draught of the rich strong wine he had left untasted.
In the hall he found the young man, who was still a stranger to him, looking wan and pale beside the merry circle he had just quitted.
"You look ill yourself, my friend; you are not fit to be out on such a night."
The stranger made an impatient gesture of dissent and threw open the door. A whiff of the chill north wind burst in at the opening, and fanned the flame in the chandelier, and blew into the face of the girl from the North, as if it bore her a greeting from her home. Outside, the street was empty and silent. A chill dense rain was beginning to fall, and the horses of the carriage which awaited them were fretting and tramping uneasily. "Get in as quickly as you can," said the stranger; "there is one person on the back seat."
Rondelet placed himself beside the person on the back seat, the young man sprang into the carriage, and the horses leaped forward into a gallop. As his eyes became accustomed to the
