reply.

'He never had any colour, you know, and his life... But I must tell you,'
she resumed to Mrs. Loring. 'He's a bachelor, in comfortable circumstances,
and--would you believe it?--he lives quite alone in one of the distressing
parts of London. Where is it, Ada?'

'A poor street in Islington.'

'Yes. There he lives, I'm afraid in shocking lodgings--it must be, _so_
unhealthy--just to become acquainted with the life of poor people, and be
helpful to them. Isn't it heroic? He seems to have given up his whole life
to it. One never meets him anywhere; I think ours is the only house where
he's seen. A noble life! He never talks about it. I'm sure you would never
have suspected such a thing from his conversation at dinner?'

'Not for a moment,' answered Mrs. Loring, astonished. 'He wasn't very
gossipy--I gathered that his chief interests were fretwork and foreign
politics.'

Mrs. Weare laughed. 'The very man! When I was a little girl he used to make
all sorts of pretty things for me with his fret-saw; and when I grew old
enough, he instructed me in the balance of Power. It's possible, mamma,
that he writes leading articles. We should never hear of it.'

'My dear, anything is possible with Mr. Tymperley. And such a change, this,
after his country life. He had a beautiful little house near ours, in
Berkshire. I really can't help thinking that my husband's death caused him
to leave it. He was so attached to Mr. Charman! When my husband died, and
we left Berkshire, we altogether lost sight of him--oh, for a couple of