LITMIR.BIZ

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as they proceeded.

      "Too late, I'm afraid, sir," said the policeman.

      "I fear so," said Dr. Spenlove gravely.

      It proved to be the case. The girl was dead.

      The signing of papers and other formalities detained Dr. Spenlove at the police station for nearly an hour, and he departed with a heavy weight at his heart. He had been acquainted with the girl whose life's troubles were over since the commencement of his career in Portsmouth. She was then a child of fourteen, living with her parents, who were respectable working people. Growing into dangerous beauty, she had fallen as others had fallen, and had fled from her home to find herself after a time deserted by her betrayer. Meanwhile the home in which she had been reared was broken up; the mother died, the father left the town. Thrown upon her own resources, she drifted into the ranks of the "unfortunates," and became a familiar figure in low haunts, one of civilization's painted, bedizened nightbirds of the streets. Dr. Spenlove had befriended her, counseled her, warned her, urged her to reform, and her refrain was: "What can I do? I must live." It was not an uncommon case; the good doctor came in contact with many such, and could have prophesied with unerring accuracy the fate in store for them. The handwriting is ever on the wall, and no special gift is needed to decipher it. Drifting, drifting, drifting, forever drifting and sinking lower and lower till the end comes. It had come soon to this young girl-mercifully, thought Dr. Spenlove as he plodded slowly on, for surely the snapping of life's chord in the spring, time of her life was better than the sure descent into a premature, haggard, and sinful old age. Recalling these reminiscences, his doubts with respect to his duty in the mission he had undertaken were solved. There was but one safe course for Mrs. Turner to follow.

      He hastened his steps. His interview with Mr. Gordon and the tragic incident in which he had been engaged had occupied a considerable time, and it was now close upon midnight. It was late for an ordinary visit, but he was a medical man, and the doors of his patients were open to him at all hours. In the poor street in which Mrs. Turner resided many of the houses were left unlocked night and day for the convenience of the lodgers, and her house being one of these, Dr. Spenlove had no difficulty in obtaining admission. He shook the snow from his clothes, and ascending the stairs, knocked at Mrs. Turner's door; no answer coming he knocked again and again, and at length he turned the handle and entered.

      The room was quite dark; there was no fire in the grate, no candle light. He listened for the sound of breathing, but none reached his ears.

      "Mrs. Turner!" he cried.

      Receiving no response, he struck a match. The room was empty. Greatly alarmed, he went to the landing and knocked at an adjoining door. A woman's voice called.

      "Who's there?"

      "It is I, Dr. Spenlove."

      "Wait a moment, sir."

      He heard shuffling steps, and presently the tenant appeared, only partially dressed, with a lighted candle in her hand.

      "I didn't send for you, doctor," she said.

      "No. I want to ask you about Mrs. Turner. She is not in her room."

      "I thought it was strange I didn't hear the baby crying, but I don't know where she is."

      "Did you not hear her go out?"

      "No, sir; I come home at ten soaked through and through, and I was glad to get to bed. It aint a night a woman would care to keep out in unless she couldn't help herself."

      "Indeed it is not. Did you see anything of her before you went to bed?"

      "I didn't see her; I heard her. I was just going off when she knocked at my door and asked if I could give her a little milk for the baby, but I hadn't any to give. Besides, she aint got a feeding bottle that I know of. She's been trying to borrow one, but nobody in the house could oblige her. She's having a hard time of it, doctor."

      "She is, poor soul!" said Dr. Spenlove, with a sigh.

      "It's the way with all of us, sir; no one ought to know that better than you do. There aint a lodger in the house that's earning more than twelve shillings a week-not much to keep a family on, is it, sir? And we've got a landlord with a heart of stone. If it hadn't been for her baby, and that it might have got him in hot water, he'd have turned her out weeks ago. He's bound to do it to-morrow if her rent aint paid. He told me so this morning when he screwed the last penny out of me."

      "Do you know whether she succeeded in obtaining milk for the child?"

      "It's hardly likely, I should say. Charity begins at home, doctor."

      "It is natural and just that it should-but it is terrible, terrible! Where can Mrs. Turner have gone to?"

      "Heaven knows. One thing I do know, doctor-she's got no friends; she wouldn't make any, kept herself to herself, gave herself airs, some said, though I don't go as far as that; I dare say she has her reasons, only when a woman sets herself up like that it turns people against her. Are you sure she aint in her room?"

      "The room is empty."

      "It's enough to be the death of a baby to take it out such a night as this. Listen to the wind."

      A furious gust shook the house, and made every window rattle. To Dr. Spenlove's agitated senses it seemed to be alive with ominous voices, proclaiming death and destruction to every weak and helpless creature that dared to brave it. He passed his hand across his forehead in distress.

      "I must find her. I suppose you cannot tell me of any place she may have gone to for assistance."

      "I can't, sir. There's a bare chance that, as she had no coals and no money to buy 'em with, someone in the house has taken her in for the night. I'll inquire if you like."

      "I shall be obliged to you if you will," said Dr. Spenlove, catching eagerly at the suggestion, "and I pray that you may be right."

      "You won't mind waiting in the passage, sir, till I've dressed myself. I shan't be a minute."

      She was very soon ready, and she went about the house making inquiries; and, returning, said that none of the lodgers could give her any information concerning Mrs. Turner.

      "I am sorry to have disturbed you," said Dr. Spenlove, and wishing her good-night he once more faced the storm. The fear by which he was oppressed was that the offer of succor had come too late, and that Mrs. Turner had been driven by despair to the execution of some desperate design to put an end to her misery. Instinctively, and with a sinking heart, he took the direction of the sea, hurrying eagerly after every person he saw ahead of him in the hope that it might be the woman of whom he was in search. The snow was many inches thick on the roads, and was falling fast; the wind tore through the now almost deserted streets, moaning, sobbing, shrieking, with an appalling human suggestion in its tones created by Dr. Spenlove's fears. Now and then he met a policeman, and stopped to exchange a few words with him, the intention of which was to ascertain if the man had seen any person answering to the description of Mrs. Turner. He did not mention her by name, for he had an idea-supposing his search to be happily successful-that Mr. Gordon would withdraw his offer if any publicity were attracted to the woman he was ready to marry. The policemen could not assist him; they had seen no woman with a baby in her arms tramping the streets on this wild night.

      "Anything special, sir?" they asked.

      "No," he replied, "nothing special," and so went on his way.

      CHAPTER V.

      "COME! WE WILL END IT."

      When Dr. Spenlove left Mrs. Turner she sat for some time in a state of dull lethargy. No tear came into her eyes, no sigh escaped from her bosom. During the past few months she had exhausted the entire range of remorseful and despairing emotion. The only comfort she had received through all those dreary months sprang from the helpful sympathy of Dr. Spenlove; apart from that she had never been buoyed up by a ray of light, had never been cheered by the hope of a brighter day. Her one prevailing thought, which she did not express in words, was that she would be better dead than alive. She did not court death; she waited for it, and silently prayed that it would come soon. It was not from the strength of inward moral support that she had the courage to live on, it was simply that she had schooled herself into the

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