"Ah,—perhaps she's in the room yonder," said Barnabas, "anyhow, I mean to see—"

"No ye don't!" cried the little cobbler, seizing a crutch that leant near him, and springing up with astonishing agility, "no ye don't, my fine gentleman,—she ain't for you,—not while I'm 'ere to protect her!" and snatching up a long awl, he flourished it above his head. "I'm a cobbler, oh yes,—but then I'm a valiant cobbler, as valiant as Sir Bedevere, or Sir Lancelot, or any of 'em,—every bit,—come and try me!" and he made a pass in the air with the awl as though it had been a two-edged sword. But, at this moment, the door of the inner room was pushed open and Clemency appeared. She had laid aside her threadbare cloak, and Barnabas was struck afresh by her proud, dark loveliness.

"You good, brave Nick!" said she, laying her hand upon the little cripple's bent shoulder, "but we can trust this gentleman, I know."

"Trust him!" repeated the cobbler, peering at Barnahas, more particularly at his feet, "why, your boots is trustworthy—now I come to look at 'em, sir,"

"Boots?" said Barnabas.

"Ah," nodded the cobbler, "a man wears his character into 'is boots a sight quicker than 'e does into 'is face,—and I can read boots and shoes easier than I can print,—and that's saying summat, for I'm a great reader, I am. Why didn't ye show me your boots at first and have done with it?" saying which the cobbler snorted and sat down; then, having apparently swallowed a handful of nails, he began to hammer away lustily, while Barnabas followed Clemency into the inner room, and, being there, they stood for a long moment looking on each other in silence.

And now Barnabas saw that, with her apron and mobcap, the country serving-maid had vanished quite. In her stead was a noble woman, proud and stately, whose clear, sad eyes returned his gaze with a gentle dignity; Clemency indeed was gone, but Beatrix had come to life. Yet, when he spoke, Barnabas used the name he had known her by first.

"Clemency," said he, "your father is seeking for you."

"My—father!" she exclaimed, speaking in a whisper. "You have seen—my father? You know him?"

"Yes. I met him—not long ago. His name is Ralph Darville, he told me, and he goes up and down the countryside searching for you—has done so, ever since he lost you, and he preaches always Forgiveness and Forgetfulness of Self!"

"My father!" she whispered again with quivering lips. "Preaching?"

"He tramps the roads hoping to find you, Clemency, and he preaches at country wakes and fairs because, he told me, he was once a very selfish man, and unforgiving."

"And—oh, you have seen him, you say,—lately?" she cried.

"Yes. And I sent him to Frittenden—to the 'Spotted Cow.' But

Clemency, he was just a day too late."

Now when Barnabas said this, Clemency uttered a broken cry, and covered her face.

"Oh, father!" she whispered, "if I had only known,—if I could but have guessed! Oh, father! father!"

"Clemency, why did you run away?"

"Because I—I was afraid!"

"Of Chichcster?"

"No!" she cried in sudden scorn, "him I only—hate!"

"Then—whom did you fear?"

Clemency was silent, but, all at once, Barnabas saw a burning flush that crept up, over rounded throat and drooping face, until it was lost in the dark shadow of her hair.

"Was it—the Viscount?" Barnabas demanded suddenly.

"No—no, I—I think it was—myself. Oh, I—I am very wretched and—lonely!" she sobbed, "I want—my father!"

"And he shall be found," said Barnabas, "I promise you! But, until then, will you trust me, Clemency, as—as a sister might trust her brother? Will you let me take you from this dreary place,—will you, Clemency? I—I'll buy you a house—I mean a—a cottage—in the country—or anywhere you wish."

"Oh, Mr. Beverley!" she sighed, looking up at him with tear-dimmed eyes, but with the ghost of a smile hovering round her scarlet lips, "I thank you,—indeed, indeed I do, but how can I? How may I?"

"Quite easily," said Barnabas stoutly, "oh quite—until I bring your father to you."

"Dear, dear father!" she sighed. "Is he much changed, I wonder? Is he well,—quite well?"

"Yes, he is very well," answered Barnabas, "but you—indeed you cannot stay here—"

"I must," she answered. "I can earn enough for my needs with my needle, and poor little Nick is very kind—so gentle and considerate in spite of his great, rough voice and fierce ways. I think he is the gentlest little man in all the world. He actually refused to take my money at first, until I threatened to go somewhere else."

"But how did you find your way to—such a place as this?"

"Milo brought me here."

"The Viscount's little imp of a groom?"

"Yes, though he promised never to tell—him where I was, and Milo always keeps his word. And you, Mr. Beverley, you will promise also, won't you?"

"You mean—never to tell the Viscount of your whereabouts?"

Clemency nodded.

"Yes," said Barnabas, "I will promise, but—on condition that you henceforth will regard me as a brother. That you will allow me the privilege of helping you whenever I may, and will always turn to me in your need. Will you promise me this, Clemency?" And Barnabas held out his hand.

"Yes," she answered, smiling up into his earnest eyes, "I think I shall be—proud to—have you for a brother." And she put her hand into his.

"Ah! so you're a-going, are ye?" demanded the cobbler, disgorging the last of the nails as Barnabas stepped into the dark little shop.

"Yes," said Barnabas, "and, if you think my boots sufficiently trustworthy, I should like to shake your hand."

"Eh?" exclaimed the cobbler, "shake 'ands with old Nick, sir? But you're one o' the Quality, and I 'ates the Quality—chop off their 'eads if I 'ad my way, I would! and my 'and's very dirty—jest let me wipe it a bit,—there sir, if you wish to! and 'ere's 'oping to see you again. Though, mark you, the Frenchies was quite right,—there's nothing like the gillertine, I say. Good arternoon, sir."

Then Barnabas went out into the narrow, grimy alley, and closed the crazy door behind him. But he had not gone a dozen yards when he heard Clemency calling his name, and hastened back.

"Mr. Beverley," said she, "I want to ask you—something else—about my father—"

"Yes," said Barnabas, as she hesitated.

"Does he think I am—does he know that—though I ran away with—a beast, I—ran away—from him, also,—does he know—?"

"He knows you for the sweet, pure woman you are," said Barnabas as she fell silent again, "he knows the truth, and lives but to find you again—my sister!" Now, when he said this, Barnabas saw within her tearful eyes the light of a joy unutterable; so he bared his head and, turning about, strode quickly away up the alley.

Being come into the narrow, dingy street, he suddenly espied Mr. Shrig who leaned against a convenient post and stared with round eyes at the tumble-down houses opposite, while upon his usually placid brow he wore a frown of deep perplexity.

"So you followed me?" exclaimed Barnabas.

"V'y, sir, since you mention it,—I did take that 'ere liberty. This is a werry on-savory neighborhood at most times, an' the air's werry bad for—fob-seals, say,—and cravat-sparklers at all times. Sich things 'as a 'abit o' wanishing theirselves avay." Having said which, Mr. Shrig walked on beside Barnabas as one who profoundly meditates, for his brow was yet furrowed deep with thought.