In ten days I was at home again--and my mother's arms were roundme.

I had left her for my sea-voyage very unwillingly--seeing thatshe was in delicate health. On my return, I was grieved toobserve a change for the worse, for which her letters had notprepared me. Consulting our medical friend, Mr. MacGlue, I foundthat he, too, had noticed my mother's failing health, but that heattributed it to an easily removable cause--to the climate ofScotland. My mother's childhood and early life had been passed onthe southern shores of England. The change to the raw, keen airof the North had been a trying change to a person at her age. InMr. MacGlue's opinion, the wise course to take would be to returnto the South before the autumn was further advanced, and to makeour arrangements for passing the coming winter at Penzance orTorquay.

Resolved as I was to keep the mysterious appointment whichsummoned me to London at the month's end, Mr. MacGlue'ssuggestion met with no opposition on my part. It had, to my mind,the great merit of obviating the necessity of a second separationfrom my mother--assuming that she approved of the doctor'sadvice. I put the question to her the same day. To my infiniterelief, she was not only ready, but eager to take the journey tothe South. The season had been unusually wet, even for Scotland;and my mother reluctantly confessed that she "did feel a certainlonging" for the mild air and genial sunshine of the Devonshirecoast.

We arranged to travel in our own comfortable carriage bypost--resting, of course, at inns on the road at night. In thedays before railways it was no easy matter for an invalid totravel from Perthshire to London--even with a light carriage andfour horses. Calculating our rate of progress from the date ofour departure, I found that we had just time, and no more, toreach London on the last day of the month.

I shall say nothing of the secret anxieties which weighed on mymind, under these circumstances. Happily for me, on everyaccount, my mother's strength held out. The easy and (as we thenthought) the rapid rate of traveling had its invigorating effecton her nerves. She slept better when we rested for the night thanshe had slept at home. After twice being delayed on the road, wearrived in London at three o'clock on the afternoon of the lastday of the month. Had I reached my destination in time?

As I interpreted the writing of the apparition, I had still somehours at my disposal. The phrase, "at the month's end," meant, asI understood it, at the last hour of the last day in the month.If I took up my position "under the shadow of Saint Paul's," say,at ten that night, I should arrive at the place of meeting withtwo hours to spare, before the last stroke of the clock markedthe beginning of the new month.

At half-past nine, I left my mother to rest after her longjourney, and privately quit the house. Before ten, I was at mypost. The night was fine and clear; and the huge shadow of thecathedral marked distinctly the limits within which I had beenbid to wait, on the watch for events.

The great clock of Saint Paul's struck ten--and nothing happened.

The next hour passed very slowly. I walked up and down; at onetime absorbed in my own thoughts; at another, engaged in watchingthe gradual diminution in the number of foot passengers whopassed me as the night advanced. The City (as it is called) isthe most populous part of London in the daytime; but at night,when it ceases to be the center of commerce, its busy populationmelts away, and the empty streets assume the appearance of aremote and deserted quarter of the metropolis. As the half hourafter ten struck--then the quarter to eleven--then the hour--thepavement steadily became more and more deserted. I could countthe foot passengers now by twos and threes; and I could see theplaces of public refreshment within my view beginning already toclose for the night.

I looked at the clock; it pointed to ten minutes past eleven. Atthat hour, could I hope to meet Mrs. Van Brandt alone in thepublic street?

The more I thought of it, the less likely such an event seemed tobe. The more reasonable probability was that I might meet heronce more, accompanied by some friend--perhaps under the escortof Van Brandt himself. I wondered whether I should preserve myself-control, in the presence of that man, for the second time.

While my thoughts were still pursuing this direction, myattention was recalled to passing events by a sad little voice,putting a strange little question, close at my side.

"If you please, sir, do you know where I can find a chemist'sshop open at this time of night?"

I looked round, and discovered a poorly clad little boy, with abasket over his arm, and a morsel of paper in his hand.

"The chemists' shops are all shut," I said. "If you want anymedicine, you must ring the night-bell."

"I dursn't do it, sir," replied the small stranger. "I am such alittle boy, I'm afraid of their beating me if I ring them up outof their beds, without somebody to speak for me."

The little creature looked at me under the street lamp with sucha forlorn experience of being beaten for trifling offenses in hisface, that it was impossible to resist the impulse to help him.

"Is it a serious case of illness?" I asked.

"I don't know, sir."

"Have you got a doctor's prescription?"

He held out his morsel of paper.

"I have got this," he said.

I took the paper from him, and looked at it.

It was an ordinary prescription for a tonic mixture. I lookedfirst at the doctor's signature; it was the name of a perfectlyobscure person in the profession. Below it was written the nameof the patient for whom the medicine had been prescribed. Istarted as I read it. The name was "Mrs. Brand."

The idea instantly struck me that this (so far as sound went, atany rate) was the English equivalent of Van Brandt.

"Do you know the lady who sent you for the medicine?" I asked.

" Oh yes, sir! She lodges with mother--and she owes for rent. Ihave done everything she told me, except getting the physic. I'vepawned her ring, and I've bought the bread and butter and eggs,and I've taken care of the change. Mother looks to the change forher rent. It isn't my fault, sir, that I've lost myself. I am butten years old--and all the chemists' shops are shut up!"

Here my little friend's sense of his unmerited misfortunesoverpowered him, and he began to cry.

"Don't cry, my man!" I said; "I'll help you. Tell me somethingmore about the lady first. Is she alone?"

"She's got her little girl with her, sir."

My heart quickened its beat. The boy's answer reminded me of thatother little girl whom my mother had once seen.

"Is the lady's husband with her?" I asked next.

"No, sir--not now. He was with her; but he went away--and hehasn't come back yet."

I put a last conclusive question.

"Is her husband an Englishman?" I inquired.

"Mother says he's a foreigner," the boy answered.

I turned away to hide my agitation. Even the child might havenoticed it!

Passing under the name of "Mrs. Brand"--poor, so poor that shewas obliged to pawn her ring--left, by a man who was a foreigner,alone with her little girl--was I on the trace of her at thatmoment? Was this lost child destined to be the innocent means ofleading me back to the woman I loved, in her direst need ofsympathy and help? The more I thought of it, the more stronglythe idea of returning with the boy to the house in which hismother's lodger lived fastened itself on my mind. The clockstruck the quarter past eleven. If my anticipations ended inmisleading me, I had still three-quarters of an hour to sparebefore the month reached its end.

"Where do you live?" I asked.

The boy mentioned a street, the name of which I then heard forthe first time. All he could say, when I asked for furtherparticulars, was that he lived close by the river--in whichdirection, he was too confused and too frightened to be able totell me.

While we were still trying to understand each other, a cab passedslowly at some little distance. I hailed the man, and mentionedthe name of the street to him. He knew it perfectly well. Thestreet was rather more than a mile away from us, in an easterlydirection. He undertook to drive me there and to bring me backagain to Saint Paul's (if necessary), in less than twentyminutes. I opened the door of the cab, and told my little friendto get in. The boy hesitated.

"Are we going to the chemist's, if you please, sir?" he asked.

"No. You are going home first, with me."

The boy began to cry again.

"Mother will beat me, sir, if I go back without the medicine."

"I will take care that your mother doesn't beat you. I am adoctor myself; and I want to see the lady before we get themedicine."

The announcement of my profession appeared to inspire the boywith a certain confidence. But he still showed no disposition toaccompany me to his mother's house.

"Do you mean to charge the lady anything?" he asked. "The moneyI've got on the ring isn't much. Mother won't like having ittaken out of her rent."

"I won't charge the lady a farthing," I answered.

The boy instantly got into the cab. "All right," he said, "aslong as mother gets her money."

Alas for the poor! The child's education in the sordid anxietiesof life was completed already at ten years old!

We drove away.