Wayfaring Men. Lyall Edna

      Ralph’s chief comfort at this time was in a certain free library at no great distance from his lodgings. He made his way there now, and for a time lost the sense of his troubles in the world of books. This evening he had the good fortune to light upon Stanley Weyman’s “House of the Wolf,” a story which gave him keener and more healthy enjoyment than he had known for many a day. When he came back to the everyday world again and set out for his return walk to Paradise Street, he found that the fog had very much increased and it was with great difficulty that he could make out his way. As he was groping cautiously along an almost deserted street, he was startled by the sound of a shrill, childish voice.

      “Let me go! Let me go!” it cried passionately. “How dare you stop me? How dare you?”

      Ralph ran in the direction of the sound, until in the fog and darkness, he cannoned against the form of a man who turned angrily upon him, revealing as he did so, in the dim lamplight which struggled through the murky air, the evil face of an old roué. Fighting to free herself from him, like a little wild-cat, was the figure of a mere child; her vigour and agility were wonderful to behold and it was a task of no great difficulty for Ralph to help in freeing her from the clutches of the two-legged brute. Spite of the imperfect light, the child had been quickwitted enough to recognise the new comer as a protector, and she clung firmly to his hand as they went down the foggy street, never pausing until all fear of further molestation was over. Then, panting for breath, she stopped for a minute beneath a lamp-post, and in the little oasis of light, looked searchingly up into his face as though to make quite sure what manner of man he was. He saw now that she must be older than he had thought; from her height he had fancied her about eleven but he realised both by her face and her expression, that she must be at least fifteen. Her colouring was curiously like Evereld’s but the face was sharper, and had a funny look of assurance and knowledge of the world, which was, nevertheless, belied by the childish curves of cheek and chin, and by the nervous pressure with which she still clasped his hand.

      “I don’t know a bit what this street is,” she said, with tears in her voice, “And if I don’t soon get home grandfather will be dreadfully anxious about me.”

      “Where is your home?” asked Ralph, feeling curiously drawn to the forlorn little mortal who had crossed his path so strangely.

      “It’s in Paradise Street, Vauxhall,” said the child.

      “Ah, that’s lucky!” said Ralph. “My rooms are there too. What takes you out at this time of night? It’s not safe for you to be wandering about London alone.”

      “I always do go alone,” said the child, a little indignantly. “And no one ever dared to bother me before. One of the dressers always walks with me as far as our roads lie together, but this bit I always do alone ever since I went to the theatre.”

      “Oh you are on the stage,” said Ralph, his interest increasing; “Well, you are lucky to have work; it’s more than I can get.”

      “I used only to dance,” said the child, eagerly. “But now I have a little part of my own, but of course you won’t know my name yet, it’s not much known. I am Miss Ivy Grant.”

      There was a comical touch of pride and dignity in the words. Ralph’s lip twitched, but he bowed gravely and said he was delighted to make her acquaintance. Then, having walked a little further, they suddenly realised what road they were in and without much more difficulty groped their way home to Paradise Street.

      “I want you to come in and see my grandfather,” said Ivy, pausing at her door. “He will be very grateful to you for having helped me.”

      Ralph hesitated. “It is late for me to come in now,” he said.

      “It won’t be late for grandfather, he never settles in till after midnight. He is half paralysed. Please come.”

      He couldn’t find it in his heart to resist the pleading little voice, and Ivy took him through the narrow passage and into the front sitting-room, where they found a fine looking old man whose flowing, white beard and many coloured dressing-gown gave him a sort of Eastern look. The small, grey, critical eyes, however, were not Eastern at all and when he spoke Ralph fancied that he could detect a slight Scotch accent, which together with the tone of voice made him think somehow of Sir Matthew Mactavish.

      He looked searchingly at the new comer, but on Ivy’s hurried explanation held out his hand cordially, thanking him for coming to the child’s aid with a warmth which was evidently genuine.

      “She has to be breadwinner-in-chief to the establishment,” he said, with a smile, “And being a wise-like little body seldom gets into difficulties. Being a useless old log myself I should long ago have been hewn down and cast into the Union had it not been for the Ivy that supported me.”

      “You say those pretty things because you know it will make me come and kiss you,” said Ivy, saucily, as she threw off her cloak and hat and wreathed her arms about the old man’s neck. “And now while I get your coffee ready you must talk to Mr. Denmead, for he wants work at the theatre and can’t get it.”

      “Half a dozen years ago when I was dramatic critic for the Pennon I might have done something for you,” said the old man, wistfully. “But now I am little but a burden as I told you. A few pupils come to me still for lessons in elocution, and I have the training of Ivy who is going to be a credit to me.”

      As he spoke he glanced towards the little housewife who with an air of importance was preparing the supper. Ralph thought he had never before seen any one move with such grace, and though her face was lacking in the simplicity and peace which characterised Evereld, it was a particularly winsome little face.

      “How did you get on to-night little one?” said the old man.

      “Very well,” said Ivy as she poured the coffee out of an ancient percolator into three earthenware cups which had seen hard service. Ralph observed that she kept the cup without a handle for herself, and carefully selected him one which was without a chip on the drinking side of the rim. “But I might easily have broken my leg,” she continued, cheerfully; “for that stupid Jem had forgotten to shut one of the traps properly, and Mr. Merrithorne stumbled and hurt his ankle badly.”

      “What part does he play?” said her grandfather.

      “Oh he hasn’t very much to do, he is a rather stupid footman and he was bringing in the luncheon tray with the property pie and that old fowl which wants painting again so badly, and when he tripped up, the pie went bowling down the stage, and the fowl landed in Miss West’s lap and every one roared with laughter. She was dreadfully angry, but afterwards when it seemed that Mr. Merrithorne was really hurt she was rather sorry for him.”

      “Who is his understudy?”

      “I don’t know. It is such a little part, perhaps he hasn’t one. But he was limping dreadfully as he went away. I shouldn’t think he could act to-morrow.”

      “It’s possible that might give you a chance,” said the professor of elocution. “A stupid, countrified man-servant you say, Ivy? Are you pretty good at dialect?”

      Ralph laughed, for he knew that he was an adept at a certain south country dialect, and without more ado stood up and gave the Professor a short and highly humourous dialogue between a ploughman and his boy, with which he had often made Evereld and her governess laugh.

      “Good,” said the Professor, his grey eyes twinkling, “I think you’ll do young man; but come to me to-morrow morning at nine o’clock and I’ll give you a few hints about voice production.”

      Ralph coloured. “You are very good,” he said, “but to tell the truth I am at my wit’s end for money and much as I would like lessons can’t possibly afford them.”

      “Pshaw! nonsense,” said the Professor, knitting his brows. “I’m already in your debt, for it might have fared ill with the child had you not taken care of her tonight. If I can give you a helping hand, nothing would please me better. And after the lesson