Totty found it difficult to say that word even to herself. 'The fact of the matter is, I don't think as I shall ever care proper for anybody.

I've a good mind not to marry at all, as I always said I wouldn't. I was right enough as long as I kept to that. The girls 'll only make fun of me.'

Yes, but her promise?--She began to feel gloomy. Perhaps nightfall had something to do with it. Should she make tea? No, she didn't care for it. She would go out--somewhere.

She walked from Newport Street to Lambeth Road, passed Bethlehem Hospital (Bedlam), and came to St. George's Cathedral. It is a long, vast, ugly building, unfinished, for it still lacks towers; in the dark it looked very cold and forbidding, but Totty had a sense that there was warmth within, warmth and shelter of a kind that she needed just now.

She entered, and, at the proper place, dropped to her knees and crossed herself. Then she stood looking about. Near her, hanging against a pillar, was a box with the superscription: 'For the Souls in Purgatory.' She always put a penny into this box, and did so now.

Then she walked softly to an image of the Virgin, at whose feet someone had laid hothouse flowers. A poor woman was kneeling there, a woman in rags; her head was bent in prayer, her hands clasped against her breast. Totty knelt beside her, bent her own head and clasped her hands.

Yes, it was good to be here. All was very still; but few lights were burning. When Totty needed a mother's counsel, a mother's love, she was wont to come here and whisper humble thoughts to the image which looked down so soothingly upon all who made appeal. To Totty her religion was a purely private interest. It would never, for instance, have occurred to her to demand that her husband should be a Catholic, not even that he should view her faith with sympathetic tolerance. No word on this subject would ever pass her lips. What was it to any one else if she had in secret a mother to whom she breathed her troubles and her difficulties? Could any one grudge her that? The consolation was too sacred to speak of. Her thoughts did not rise to a Deity; she thought but seldom of the story which told her that Deity had taken man's form.

The Madonna was enough, the mother whose gentle heart was full of sorrows and who had power to aid the sorrowful.

The poor ragged woman sighed deeply, rose and went forth with humble step--went forth to who knows what miseries, what cruelties and despairs. But in her sigh there had been consolation.'

Even so with Totty. When at length she left the church, her way was by no means clear of all obstacles, but the trouble which had come upon her with unwonted force was much simplified. It was plain to her that she _could_ give herself to Ackroyd, and that to give him the two hundred and fifty pounds would be a very substantial pleasure. Growing accustomed to the thought of her wealth, she derived from it a quiet pride, which made her walk homewards more staidly than usual. Luke could never forget that she had been a great help to him.

She would let him settle everything to-night, then would tell him.

These winter nights were troublesome to an unfortunate pair who wished to talk in a leisurely way together, yet had no shelter save that of a place of public entertainment, or an archway under the line. And to-night it was particularly cold; there had even fallen a little snow.

Totty and Ackroyd met, as usual, at the end of Paradise Street. It being Sunday, they could not go to the music-hall, and it was really impossible to stand about in the open air.

'Look here, Totty,' said Ackroyd, 'you _must_ come into the house. You needn't see any one, unless you like. We can have the sitting-room to ourselves. The others always sit downstairs.'

Totty hesitated, but at length assented. If the truth were known, her two hundred and fifty pounds had probably something to do with her yielding on this point. At present she could face Mrs. Poole on equal terms.

So they entered the house, and Luke, having left his companion in the parlour, went down to apprise his sister. Jane came up, and gave the girl a civil greeting. It was not cordial, nor did Totty affect warmth of feeling. Mrs. Poole speedily left the two to themselves.

Totty sat in her chair rather stiffly. She was not accustomed to take her ease in rooms even as well appointed as this. Luke tried to be merry, to show that he was delighted, to be affectionate; he did not succeed very well. Presently they were sitting at a little distance from each other, each waiting for the other to speak.

'When is it to be?' Ackroyd said at length, bending forward.

'I don't know. Is it _really_ to be?'

'Why not? Of course it is.'

Totty had felt colder to him than ever before, since she had entered this room. The strangeness of the surroundings affected her disagreeably. She wished they had walked about in the snowy streets.

'Of course you know we shall always be quarrelling,' she said, with a laugh.

'No, we shan't. It'll be different then. At all event, it'll be your fault if we do.'

Silence came again.

'What day?' Luke asked.

'When you like, If you really mean it.'

'Now what's the use of talking in that way? Why _shouldn't_ I mean it?'

'If I ask you a question will you answer me honest?'

She was leaning forward, with a touch of colour on her cheeks, and a sudden curious light in her eyes; she seemed ashamed at something, and both eager and reluctant.

'What is it? Yes, I'll answer you the truth.'

'The very truth? No, I shan't ask you. What day do you want it to be?'

'Nonsense! What was the question? I won't listen to anything till you've told me.'

'It was a silly question. I don't really want to ask you. I forget what it was.'

Totty was strangely unlike herself, hesitating, diffident, ashamed. He insisted; she refused to speak. He got vexed, turned mute.

'Well then, I _will_ ask you,' Totty exclaimed of a sudden. 'And mind, I shall know if you're honest or not. Suppose both Thyrza Trent and me was in this room, and you had your choice between us, which would it be?'

Ackroyd flushed, then looked seriously offended.

'Won't you answer?'

'I don't like to joke about such things.'

'And I don't either, that's the truth; that's why such a thing came into my head. You needn't answer; I'd rather you didn't. Of course I know what you'd have to say.'

'You are talking nonsense. There couldn't be a choice, because I've _made_ my choice. Will you marry me or not?'

'Yes, I will. Any day you like.'

'Yes, and afterwards keep asking me questions like this.'

'It wasn't right, I know. But you're wrong when you say I should ever speak of it again.'

'I don't know what to think, Totty. It looks very much as if _you_ didn't want to have _me_. Now look, here's a question for _you_.

Suppose I'd never asked you before to-night, and now I came and asked you to marry me, what would you say? Now, honest.'

'You've not answered me.'

'I have.'

He spoke it significantly, and she understood him.

'Now, what _would_ you say, Totty?'

'I should say, that I couldn't say neither yes nor no for certain, and I wanted to wait.'

'You're an honest girl. Shake hands, and let us wait another six months.'

Totty reddened, and inwardly reproached herself with complete meanness.

But she was glad--and Luke Ackroyd was glad.