A Woman's Burden. Fergus Hume

of conflagration. "Didn't I see a windin' sheet in the wick o' the candle? didn't I 'ear the 'owlin' of a dog? Yes, Mr. Bartons, I did, and wot's more, when I tossed a coin to see if it was true, it came up 'eads, which, as is well-known, means death."

      "Well, I am really very sorry to be the cause of dispersing such overwhelming and convincing phenomena, Mrs. Perks; but, as you see, I'm alive, and what's more I am exceedingly hungry. Now run along, there's a good soul, and let us have something to eat."

      With a final wave of her candlestick, Mrs. Perks retreated, muttering,

      "If you was a kinder-'earted sort, Mr. Bartons, I could understand it; but you ain't. It's well-known as a flint's putty to you, and I'm puzzled at your goin's on, I am. Kindness—no, don't tell me; it ain't no kindness. She ain't got no weddin'-ring neither. But food and drink they wants anyhow, so food and drink they must 'ave, I suppose."

      Mr. Barton poked the remnant of the fire. There was an unpleasant expression in his eye, as he looked at the exhausted woman before him. Mrs. Perks was unusually trying to-night. Miriam was leaning back now. Her eyes were closed and her head drooped. She was an intensely pitiable object. But there was no pity in Mr. Barton's expression as he looked at her—no glimmer of it. He was scrutinising her searchingly, cruelly. His gaze was something more than intense. She woke with a start.

      "Don't speak," he said, as he saw her lips part. "Not a word—you are much too weak to talk. After you have had something, then I'll talk to you."

      She obeyed. She felt as if all power of resistance of mind or body were leaving her. He looked at her critically again. How wasted she was! The cheeks were completely sunken. The lips were blue rather than red. Her whole expression was one of weariness. Yet withal it was a beautiful face—it had been of surpassing beauty. Intellectual, too, and refined in every line. And Barton had studied many faces in his life—and he saw more in this one than was apparent to the casual observer. He rubbed his hands in satisfaction at the result of his inspection. Indeed, he could not repress an audible expression of it—a kind of fiendish chuckle.

      It roused Miriam again. She opened her eyes with something like fear in them. A feeling had come over her of intense apprehension. She felt, indeed, as though she were in the clutches of some enemy—an enemy not of herself alone, but an enemy of mankind—of humanity. That such a one could be before her in the shape and person of Mr. Richard Barton—this respectable, middle-aged gentleman—was impossible. The mere idea was preposterous. It was no doubt a symptom of her ill-nourished condition. Yet later on she remembered what she had felt at that moment.

      Then appeared Mrs. Perks, bearing the supper-tray herself. She placed it on the table under the flaring gas-lamp, and was about to commence her chatter, when Barton interrupted her.

      "You can return in an hour, Mrs. Perks."

      "Ho, indeed, and when am I to 'ave my natural rest, Mr. Bartons, I should like to know, seein' as 'ow in an hour it'll be 'alf-past two? But I'll go, sir, though I must say as I can't 'old with such goin's on in my 'ouse."

      "Your house——!"

      "Well, if it ain't mine it ought to be, seein' as I work that 'ard that I'm just skin and bone!"

      "Now understand me, Mrs. Perks, if you don't take yourself off without another word, you will not be even an inmate of this house to-morrow!"

      The woman turned as pale as her sallow complexion would admit. She opened her lips to speak, but with a great effort refrained. She seemed to be within measurable distance of fainting. The man's expression as he fixed his eyes upon her had been horrible. She felt deadly sick. In the passage she paused, recovering herself somewhat, and shook her fist at the closed door. Then she got herself a glass of brandy—a thing she rarely did.

      "That woman was born on my estate in Hampshire," explained Barton, drawing a chair to the table for Miriam. "You'd hardly think it perhaps, but she began as scullery-maid to my mother, and ended as housekeeper to me. I brought her to London, and placed her here in this house, which I may tell you is my own property. You understand now how I was able to bring you here. An old gentleman and an unknown woman! What decent hotel would have taken in the pair of us! He, he! I know my own knowing."

      But Miriam made no protest. She ate and drank ravenously. Mr. Barton sipped his wine and watched her. Occasionally he gave utterance to the peculiar chuckle which had wakened her before. The same uncanny feeling came again upon her. She could not shake it off.

      "I wish now I had left you to Jabez," she said suddenly.

      "Indeed, why?—that is the sort of speech which I should not make if I were you, more especially whilst you are consuming meat and drink of mine. Why do you wish such a thing?"

      "Because I think you are very wicked."

      "Wicked—how? Surely I have fed you. I have ordered for you a comfortable bed, and, what's more, if you answer satisfactorily the questions I am going to put to you, I intend to procure for you a situation—how then am I wicked?"

      "I don't know—but I feel that you are. You remind me of a rat, and I loathe rats! I can see that woman who has gone feels as I do."

      "Perhaps. Still she obeys me."

      Miriam rose and took up her shawl.

      "I am going," she said curtly.

      "Indeed. I think you will also obey me, Miriam. Sit down I say."

      He pointed to a chair. She strove not to meet his eye, but his gaze compelled her. Their eyes met, and, for a moment, were in desperate conflict. Then the woman sat down. She was in a cold perspiration, and was trembling too.

      "That's right—I thought you would. Go back to Jabez would you?—well, we shall see."

      "I thank you for what you have given me, Mr. Barton; but I feel under no obligation to you, since I saved your life. The obligation, if any, is yours. But we will cry quits, if you please."

      "Not at all—as you say, it is my turn now. Let the benefits come from me, and the—well, the gratitude from you."

      "Mr. Barton, understand I wish nothing from you. Allow me to go."

      "Where, back to Jabez—the man who murders strangers because you starve? No, my good young lady. It is for me to save your Jabez from the gallows by retaining you—that is if——By the way, what is your full name?" he asked abruptly.

      His eyes were full upon her again. She felt herself unable to shake off their horrid fascination; all power of resistance seemed to leave her.

      "My name is Miriam Crane," she said faintly.

      "And what are you?"

      "The daughter of a sea captain."

      "H'm—respectable enough on the face of it. And how do you come to be in this plight?"

      "When my mother died, my father left me in a seaport town in charge of a friend of his, having paid my board for a year. He was lost at sea, and I was turned out of doors by his friend. I came to London thinking to get some engagement as a governess."

      "Oh, you are well educated then?"

      "Sufficiently so to teach children. But without influence or references I could get nothing. My small stock of money soon went. I pawned everything I had, even my clothes. I even tried to make a living by selling flowers, but I could not. Everywhere I went, in everything I did, I was unlucky. I sank and sank until——"

      "Until right down at the bottom I suppose you met this Jabez of yours. He is your lover?"

      "He does love me," blazed forth Miriam, "but I am an honest woman."

      "Naturally," Barton chuckled, "otherwise with your beauty you certainly would not be starving. Why are you so honest?"

      "I believe in God," her eyes sought his searchingly. "You don't," she said.

      "Perhaps not—nevertheless, I am honest too."

      "That