Carrie lay ill in the hospital for nearly three weeks. Many a night did Arthur wander around the building till long after the clock had sounded twelve, ever and again pausing to gaze up at the window of the ward in which he knew she lay, picturing to himself, amid the silence of the dark streets, the beautiful face of the suffering girl lying with its background of rich dark hair upon the uneasy pillow. He liked to think of her as asleep, drinking deep of sweet and healthful rest after the misery of homeless days and nights, and the long agony of starvation in the streets. He never availed himself of the visitors’ days to go and see her. It was extremely unlikely that she remembered his face, and to introduce himself to her by the memory of by-gone trouble would be the mere selfish gratification of his wishes. He knew that she continued to improve, and that was sufficient.

In the meantime he had succeeded in making an agreeable change in his occupation. The night-work to which he was subject in alternate weeks had grown extremely irksome to him, and was producing an evident impression upon his health. Accordingly, he had seized the opportunity of a tempting advertisement by a celebrated firm of printers, and had been happy enough to obtain an excellent place in their office, where his work would only occupy him in the daytime, and where he would earn more than hitherto. He began to work at the new place only a few days before Carrie was ready to leave the hospital. For the latter event he immediately began to make preparations.

He and his friend Mark had kept their resolutions of relinquishing their abode in the house of the Pettindunds. At the end of their week’s notice they had taken one large room in Huntley Street, at no great distance from Gower Place, where they for the present lived together, thus affecting a piece of economy very agreeable to both. In the same street Arthur now proceeded to look for a small furnished bedroom. Before long he found one precisely to his taste, at a low rent, and this he forthwith bespoke, saying that its occupant would come and take possession of it in a day or two.

Arthur was now somewhat puzzled how td proceed. He knew that Carrie was in a deplorable condition as regards clothing, and scarcely saw how he could make good the deficiency. He was troubled, moreover, to discover some plan by which he could make an offer of his assistance with suitable delicacy and then instal Carrie in her room without fear of endangering her reputation; the latter, especially, being a task which the fearful and wonderful complication of our social delicacies and pruderies renders always somewhat difficult. The world is so very slow to believe that connections other than of a certain sort can possibly exist between young people of different sex who see each other in private; it is so easy for corrupt imagination to picture situations completely familiar to themselves, so extremely difficult for them to conceive the existence of virtue and self-respect. After much reflection Arthur concluded that there was but one easily-practicable course; he must take his landlady into his confidence.

Mrs. Oaks was, as far as Arthur had hitherto been able to judge, a kind-hearted and motherly woman, not at all of the lodging-house-landlady type. She had several children, whose clean and respectable appearance had already struck Arthur as unusual under the circumstances, and as she had been a widow for several years she had no one but herself to consult upon a point of delicacy. She was, moreover, the only woman whom Arthur had at present any relations with. Arriving at a decision after a consideration of these various points, the young man requested an interview with Mrs. Oaks. In plain, straightforward terms he explained to her Carrie’s helpless and friendless position — suppressing, of course, all mention of the circumstances which had led to this — and declared his interest in her. He stated that he had already taken a lodging for her, and then went on frankly to declare the difficulties in which he found himself, and to request Mrs. Oaks’ assistance, should she be willing to give it. The good woman had listened with some signs of doubt and misgiving to the commencement of this narrative, but, as Arthur progressed in it, his frank, generous expression of face and the hearty earnestness of his voice and manner won her over to fully believe in his good intentions. Possibly Arthur’s handsome features had not a little to do with the eventual conquest. Always agreeable to look upon, they became, especially to a woman, quite irresistible when lighted up with emotion.

“What I should ask you to do, then, Mrs. Oaks,” said Arthur, “if you should be willing to help me, would be this. I should like you to go and see Miss Mitchell, to judge from her appearance what clothing will be necessary for her, and then to buy it for her and let her have it. I have no idea of the cost of such things. I can spare five pounds, however; do you think that will be sufficient?”

“Well, sir,” returned Mrs. Oaks, “it’ll, at all events, get her enough to go on with.”

“Very good. Then I understand, Mrs. Oaks, you will not mind undertaking this troublesome business for me?”

“Lord, no!” returned the worthy woman. “I never grudge a little trouble if I see as I can do real good to a body. I’m sorry to say it isn’t so often I have it in my power.”

“I should, of course, wish you to consider the time you employ for me together with the rent at the end of the week,” added Arthur, after some little hesitation.

“Pooh! no such thing!” cried Mrs. Oaks. “Time’s not so over val’able to me as all that. If I go and see the girl, my eldest daughter’ll buy all the clothing, and be glad of the job. She likes shopping, Lizzie does.”

“Then there is one more thing to speak of, Mrs. Oaks, and I have done troubling you. Would it be too much to ask you to let me see Miss Mitchell in your parlour for half an hour before she goes to her own lodging? As I told you, she scarcely knows me, and some sort of explanation will be necessary.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” returned the landlady, after a moment’s thought. “I have confidence in you.”

“I am glad to hear you say so, Mrs. Oaks,” said Arthur. “I can never sufficiently thank you for your kindness; I cannot, indeed! When you see Miss Mitchell in the hospital, please do not mention my name. Say merely that a friend has sent you — a friend that will come td take her away on Saturday.”

“Well, well,” said Mrs. Oaks, laughing quietly. “I’ll do as you wish. You mean to be kind-hearted, Mr. Golding. It isn’t everyone as ‘ud do all this.”

“And it isn’t everyone that would give such kind help to a stranger as you have promised, Mrs. Oaks,” replied Arthur. “Once more, I thank you sincerely.”

Everything went well, and at three o’clock on Saturday afternoon Arthur had a cab waiting before the Middlesex Hospital to take away the convalescent. As he stood in the waiting-room expecting Carrie’s appearance, his heart beat fiercely in his bosom, he was almost choked with the varied emotions which struggled for the ascendancy within him. And when at length he saw her coming towards him, tall, graceful, still deadly pale, her thick hair done up tastefully yet simply, the plain garments which Mrs. Oaks had purchased for her giving her a fresh and neat appearance, her step evidently feeble, her eyes wandering in curious expectation, the rushing flood of deep tenderness and passion all but welled up from his heart into his eyes. He could not speak, but beckoned to her to follow him, and led her to the cab.

They drove off towards Huntley Street. Seeing the expression of doubtful recognition with which his companion regarded him, Arthur bent forward and asked if she remembered him.

“I — I think so,” she stammered. “You lived at aunt’s. I think it was you who paid my rent, wasn’t it?”

“And who had a note put under my door when you went away,” said Arthur, smiling.

The recollection of her sufferings, blended with her physical weakness and uncertainty of mind, was too much for Carne. She burst into tears.

“Where are we going?” she sobbed. “Where are you taking me? Not to aunt’s?”

“No, no, we will not go there,” said Arthur, taking one of her hands gently, and chafing it like the hand of a suffering child. “Are you afraid of me? Dare you trust me?”

But still she continued to sob, and made no reply. Arthur feared she would faint, and was glad when the cab at length stopped. There was a cheerful fire burning in the parlour, and Mrs. Oaks was there ready to pour out a cup of tea. After a few kind words to Carrie, the good woman went away and left the two to themselves.

Arthur waited till Carrie had in some degree recovered herself, and then, sitting opposite her on one side of the fireplace, he told his story in a kind, soothing voice. He related how he had seen her suffering and had felt his sympathy keenly aroused, how this feeling had become yet stronger when on the evening of Christmas Day he had found her dying in the snow; how he had her taken to the hospital, and how, now that he hoped she would before long be quite restored to health, he desired nothing so much as to be allowed to serve her. He spoke not a word directly of his passion; natural delicacy withheld him. He merely represented himself as a sincere friend, and in conclusion he begged that she would not hesitate to use the room he had taken for her, and to accept of whatever assistance it was in his power to give.

She listened throughout as though she were in a dream, appearing to only half-understand what was said to her. When Arthur’s voice had been silent for some minutes, she said, at length, with much hesitation —

“But how can I pay you back? I am too weak to work yet, and even when I do work I shall never get money enough to pay you back. I — I don’t know that I understand what you mean?”

A vague look of apprehension marked her countenance. Arthur divined her thought from this and the manner in which she spoke. He hastened to reassure her.

“And yet it is very simple,” he said. “I want to be a sincere friend to you, that is the whole of the matter. As to paying me back, I never dreamt of it; that is out of the question. All I beg of you, is that you will let me see you occasionally and ask you whether you are comfortable. That is all.”

“But why do you do this for me?” she continued to ask, looking dazed and still a little apprehensive. “You know so little of me. Why do you do it?”

“If I promise you that I will answer that question in a month’s time, will that be sufficient?” asked Arthur in return.

The girl looked still more puzzled.

“But you will do what I wish, won’t you?” urged Arthur, scarcely restraining himself from falling before her and declaring that he loved her madly. “You will let me provide for you, for the present? You won’t refuse?”

“If I do refuse,” returned Carrie, after a moment’s thought, “I must go back to the workhouse. I have nowhere to go. I have no money.

“Then you accept?” cried Arthur, springing to his feet in delight.

“You are very kind,” said Carrie, looking with a smile through her tears. “I don’t know why you do it all for me. As soon as I am strong I can earn my own living, but till then ——”

“Not another word!” interrupted Arthur. “And you will let me see you sometimes? You will let me meet you somewhere in the evening, and see how you get on?”

“You are very kind to me,” stammered Carrie, as her only reply.

“Then that’s all. Now you shall go to your own lodging. I have arranged with them to wait upon you and buy whatever you want for your meals. You will be able to do that for yourself soon, but not just yet. I have one or two other things to get you, and those I shall send as soon as I can. But however shall you employ yourself? Do you like reading?”

“A — a little,” replied Carrie, with hesitation.

“I must look for a few books then. Mrs. Oaks, that’s my landlady here, is going to walk to the house with you. She’s a kind woman, and you needn’t be afraid of her. She only knows that you are a’ friend of mine. You won’t have to walk, only a few yards. And you will be careful of health, won’t you? Whatever you do, don’t go out if it is cold or wet. I know you will take care; that is one of your ways of paying me back, mind.”

He spoke thus standing, and with his hand on the door. It was agony to him to maintain such a calm and distant tone when his heart was burning in the desire to discharge itself of endless passion. He opened the door, but instantly closed it again.

“Your window looks into the street,” he said. “If you see me waiting opposite about one o’clock on Monday, will you put your hat on and come to speak to me for a moment. I shall only come if it’s fine.”

“Yes, I will,” she replied. “I will put my hat on so as to be ready, and watch.”

“Only one thing more, then,” said Arthur, taking a small purse from his pocket and handing it to her. “Let me know as soon as that is empty. You will, of course, pay the rent and everything else yourself. And now, good-bye for the present.”

He held out his hand, and Carrie took it timidly. She seemed even yet to be uncertain as to his intention, and her dark eyes viewed him curiously and askance. He then opened the door and called Mrs. Oaks. That lady came up with her bonnet on, and at once set out with Carrie.

As the door closed behind them, Arthur hastened upstairs to his room, from the window of which he could watch them to the end of their walk. When at length Carrie and her guide completely disappeared, he sank upon a chair with a sigh, half of gladness, half of regret, and relapsed into deep thought.

As yet Mark Challenger knew nothing of all this. Arthur had feared that he would insist upon sharing in the charitable work, and he wished to have the whole delight of it for himself. But, now that it was completed, he saw no reason for further secrecy, and Mark was accordingly informed of everything the same evening.

“And what is to be the end of all this, Arthur, my boy?” he asked, gravely, as soon as the young man had completed his story.

“Who can tell?” returned Arthur, with a merry laugh.

“Who is to tell, if not yourself?”

“Ah!” sighed Arthur, “if it only depended upon me ——”

Mark regarded his young friend with a shrewd look of inquiry.

“Well?” he asked.

“Why, cannot you guess?” cried Arthur, laughing. “Carrie would be my wife tomorrow.”

“Your wife?” returned the other, as if relieved. “Well, well, there’s no great harm in that. The world seems to have treated you fairly well, on the whole, Arthur; let’s hope you’ll never be worse off than you are now. I had a wife once, and a daughter. The one starved to death, and the other — well, well, I mustn’t think of all that. It’ll make me like poor John Pether, and I seem to have been getting quieter in my mind of late. I can wish you nothing better than a good wife, Arthur, after all. But don’t be in a hurry, my boy; don’t be in a hurry.”

Arthur laughed, and, humming a merry air, sat down to one of his favourite books.

And where was the memory of Helen Norman — of that sweet ideal which had once allied itself with all there was of noblest and most aspiring in Arthur Golding’s nature? It had passed away with the use of those noble faculties and the aspirations towards which they tended; passed away, that is, as far as any active influence was concerned, though it still lingered as a sort of vaguely remembered joy — a background of dim and fading gold to the rich, warm image of the reigning delight.

The responsibilities Arthur had taken upon his shoulders were the reverse of light. He was now compelled to become, in all that concerned his personal expenditure, an absolute miser. Luckily, during the last few months, he had saved every penny he could, always in the hope of being one day able to devote them to Carrie’s needs; but these resources were now already drained, and it was only by the exercise of the most pinching economy that he could hope to keep Carrie in those circumstances of comfort which, in his eyes, befitted her.

It was not only her food and lodging which had to be paid for, but he must succeed in saving a little each week towards the purchase of clothing for her. As to her ever returning to the daily drudgery of the workroom and earning her own living, that he was determined not to suffer. Sooner would he divest himself of everything save the extremest necessaries.

Under these circumstances, there was one step he felt bound to take at once. He must relinquish his membership of the club. And this caused him the more pain because the club had of late been showing unmistakable signs of decadence. In fact, whilst no new members had joined it since Arthur, no less than six of the old ones had recently fallen off.

Enthusiasm, strongly sustained by example, can do much; but even Will Noble’s firmness and eloquence had failed to keep in their posts all those whom his strong persuasion had collected around him. The men were but unenlightened working men after all, and the temptation to find other uses for their money than that of self-denying charity were too strong for their unfortified natures. So it was with some sense of shame that Arthur attended the club meeting on Sunday, knowing that it would be his last.

When it was over, he took Will Noble’s arm and asked the latter to walk a short way with him. Then he related the circumstances which would lead to his defection.

Will listened without any sign of annoyance.

“If only the other men could know all this, Golding,” he said at length, “you could still stay with us, for you a............