bright-faced young girl, Miss Bentley. You were talking together in the
pavilion near the river. You both seemed exceedingly merry. I envied
you. I seemed to realise how old and lonely I am. I think I envied you
her friendship."

"Your impression is natural," answered the Candy Man, "but the truth is
I do not know Miss Bentley. We met unexpectedly in the pavilion that
morning. I did not at the time realise it, I was unpardonably dense,
but she took me for some one else. On the occasion of the accident that
foggy evening--you perhaps remember it--I overheard the name she gave to
the conductor. Well, it seems she had no idea she was talking to a Candy
Man that morning in the park, and I should have known it."

The Miser leaned his head on a thin hand, and certainly there was
nothing sordid, nothing mean, in the eyes which looked so kindly at his
companion. It was not perhaps a strong face, nor yet quite a weak one;
rather it indicated an over-sensitive, brooding nature. "You will not
always be a Candy Man," he said. "I have made Miss Bentley's
acquaintance recently. She is friendliness itself."

At this moment a grey slip of a woman, with a prayer-book in her hand,
entered, and was presented as Mrs. Sampson, the housekeeper. The Candy
Man rose to go, but Mr. Knight seemed now in no haste to release him.

"I should be glad to see you again, if some evening you have nothing
better to do," he said. "You may perhaps be interested in some of my
treasures." He glanced about the room. "You say you too are alone in
the world?"

"Quite," the Candy Man answered. "Everyone I know has some relative, or