I


John Penquarto looked round his diminutive bed-sitting-room with a
feeling of excitement not unmixed with awe. So this was London! The new
life had begun. With a beating heart he unpacked his bag and set out his
simple belongings.

First his books, his treasured books; where should he put them? It was
comforting to think that, wherever they stood, they would be within reach
of his hand as he lay in bed. He placed them on the window-sill and read
their titles again reverently: "Half-Hours with our Water-Beetles," "The
Fretworker's Companion" and "Strenuous Days in Simla." He owed everything
to them. And what an air they gave the room!

But not such an air as was given by his other treasure--the photograph of
Mary.

Mary! He had only met her once, and that was twenty years ago, at his
native Polwollop. He had gone to the big house with a message for Mr.
Trevena, her ladyship's butler: "Mother's respects, and she has found the
other shirt-front and will send it up as soon as it is dry." He had often
taken a similar message, for Mrs. Penquarto did the washing for the upper
servants at the Hall, but somehow he had known that to-day was going to
be different.

There, just inside the gates, was Mary. He was only six, but even then he
knew that never would he see again anything so beautiful. She was five;
but there was something in her manner of holding herself and the