"Do the work that is at hand," he said. "That is a good law to follow. People cannot get to church, so I visit them. It is true that in the beginning, when people were aware that the sickness was about to come upon them, the churches were filled with people who had never thought to visit them before. It is often only in times of terror that some people remember God. I have found a great satisfaction in this work ... such as I never had before."

Martha said: "We are getting short of flour, and we're living mainly on bread and ale. It suffices, but I can't think what we will do when it's gone. We can't get out and none will come to us. I do not know how we shall live."

"I shall bring you flour," he said. "There is no fresh food I can bring, but flour I am sure I can procure."

"While I have flour I can bake bread," said Martha.

"You still have a little?"

"I'm using the winter's store. It won't last the month, and then what, I say? Who knows ... ?"

"The winter will soon be with us. When the cold weather comes this must pass."

Martha was looking at him superciliously. I could see then that she did not believe he would bring us flour.

He sat down with us and talked. He told us there were signs that the plague was abating. We could only wait and hope. He asked if he might say a prayer, and we sat with our eyes downcast.

"Lord," he said, "give us courage to bear this cross; give us hope that it may soon pass from us, and the fortitude to rebuild the lives which are left to us."

Then he left us, promising to return the next day with flour.

"He's a madman," said Maggie when he had gone. "Stop thinking of that flour, Martha, we've seen the end of him."

I did not believe that. He had made a deep impression on me. There was an aura of saintliness about him, of absolute selflessness. It was sincerity. He seemed to have no thought for his own safety. I was aware that he believed that God would spare him to do the work he had chosen. His faith was absolute.

I was right. The next day he returned with the flour. He stayed and talked with us for a while, then he said a short prayer as before.

His visit had a marked effect on me. I felt different. I was certain that we should pass out of this, that in spite of our sorrow I should have, as he said, the fortitude to lift myself out of my melancholy and be able to face whatever lay in front of me.

With the coming of the cold weather the plague gradually abated. What a relief it was to see no more red crosses on the doors of the houses, no longer to hear the pest carts roaming the streets at night.

Those who had fled the capital were now returning. There were stalls in the streets, the shops were beginning to open, and the theaters followed. Life was rapidly returning to normal.

I was on the spot and an actress of some experience, and one or two parts came my way. It was the best thing that could happen. My work absorbed me and helped to subdue my unhappiness at the loss of Kitty.

We were trying hard to accept the fact that she had gone. Rupert Lawson was a help to us all at that time. He continued to visit us, and Martha, who would be grateful to him for the rest of her life because of the flour he had given her during our great need, liked to give him a good meal.

"What we should have done without him, I do not know," she declared. "There was I, down to my last bag of flour, and no end in sight. I reckon he saved us from starvation, that I do. And I don't think he knows what a good meal is at that place of his. Well, I'll show him."

I was sure she was right, but Rupert was not much concerned with food, nor the domestic comforts of any kind. He had a room in a kind of lodging-house and was looked after by a landlady.

I heard that one or two others of his calling had acted as he had done during those months of the plague, visiting those who were dying, and bringing comfort to them. People said that it was a miracle, for not one of these men, and there were several of them, had been smitten by the disease, in spite of the risks they had taken. And considering how virulent the sickness was, and how it could be caught merely through speaking with one who was afflicted, as must have been the case with Kitty, it did indeed seem miraculous.

Time was passing. A new year had come, and then the winter was passing into spring. When I walked through the streets it seemed that the plague might never have visited us, bringing the desolation it had. I could almost delude myself into thinking that when I returned to the house Kitty would be waiting for me.

I was seventeen years old, and very different from the child who had run away from home that night. I had known deep sorrow since then, perhaps the greatest sorrow anyone can know—suddenly to lose a loved one, one who was at that time the most important person in my life. So much had happened to me since then. I had achieved a little success. Nothing spectacular, of course, but I could say that I had taken a few steps up the ladder to a career in the theater.

Since the plague had subsided, I had been employed almost regularly. I suppose some actresses had left London, some may have been victims of the sickness; perhaps it was because there were not many to choose from that I was given this chance. I had played in Beaumont and Fletcher's Scornful Lady and Dryden's Indian Emperor with some success. My acting absorbed me, and Maggie, Martha and Rose enthusiastically followed what I did, and came to the theater to see me act. What a boon the theater was to us all during that difficult time of mourning. It helped the others no less than me. They listened to me rehearsing my parts. Often I would think: If only Kitty were here, how delighted she would be.

Moreover, I was earning money—not a great deal, but enough to give me a feeling of independence, which meant a great deal to me. Oh, if only Kitty were here! I thought that a hundred times a day.

Summer had come. We were very apprehensive, fearful that the plague might come again. When the sun was hot we were particularly fearful. It was during such weather in the previous year that we had become aware of the scourge which had taken possession of London.

People were alert. If anyone was mildly ill, that person was regarded with suspicion and contact would be avoided.

But the summer was passing and there was no sign of the trouble. July was hot and sultry. Fear grew. But it would not be long before the cold winds started to blow, and we had come through so far.

One day, when I was leaving the theater, a man came to me. He bowed deeply, lifting his hat from the luxuriant light brown curls of his wig as he did so.

"Mistress Standish," he said. "Do you remember me?"

I looked at him and I vividly recalled that night he had wanted to escort me home and Kitty had emerged suddenly to accompany us.

He said: "Congratulations, Mistress Standish. No longer the little waif with her herring basket, but an actress of fame on the stage of the King's Theatre. Well, it had to be, had it not, for such a talent could not remain hidden for long."

I laughed. "You are Lord Rosslyn," I said.

"I am honored that you remember me. I must speak to you. I want to tell you how much I enjoyed your performance. Did you hear my cheers at the end? They were all for you. In fact, I scarcely noticed the rest of the cast."

"This," I said, "is blatant flattery."

He lifted his shoulders and looked at me a trifle whimsically.

"Much has happened since we last met," he said. "It would please me greatly if we might talk together. Would you come to one of these new coffee houses? We could sit and talk with ease. What say you? There is one at Covent Garden right here. I was at Tom's in Change Alley a little while ago. I am mightily impressed with these places. I think they will become very popular. Well, what say you to the Covent Garden?"

"It would be a pleasure."

I had not yet visited one of the coffee houses. When the first one, the Rainbow, was opened in Fleet Street, there was a great deal of speculation about it. People wanted to visit it and that accounted for its initial success, but when that had faded and Dick's in the City was opened and others followed, it seemed as though they had come to stay and were popular with the people of London, and almost immediately they were supplying customers with something stronger than the coffee which had been the first intention.

When we were seated in the Covent Garden Coffee House, my companion urged me to take a little wine. But I wanted to try the coffee. I reminded him that this was a coffee house and therefore it was appropriate to drink that beverage.

He drank the coffee with me. I found it good, and I was aware of a very special stimulation in his company.

He was an extremely attractive man, years older than I. He must have been in his mid-thirties, which would make him twice my age. I thought he was more interesting than any man I had ever met. There was an air of the "man of the world" about him which appealed to my youthful innocence. Perhaps I was flattered that such a distinguished man should concern himself with me.

He leaned towards me and said: "You have grown up. Mistress Standish, since that day I took you home after you gave that wonderful performance at the house of your friends."

"He was my father's employer. My father was agent for Sir Henry Willerton's estates."

"I know. In fact, Mistress Standish, I know a great deal about you. So you came to London."

"Yes, Kitty thought I might do something in the theater." I could not say her name without emotion. He saw this and stretched out his hand and took mine. He looked into my face as he held it, and I tried to hold back the tears which came into my eyes.

"It was such a tragedy," he said. "I was desolate when I heard. She was so young, so vital ... and you were with her, were you?"

I told him how she had died and how the Reverend Rupert Lawson had assisted us by bringing food, of which we were in desperate need.

"A good man," he said. "Many have suffered, I fear."

"You were not in London?"

"No. I was in the country. There were one or two cases there. It was not a time to come to the capital if one could avoid it. My poor Mistress Standish. It was very, very sad indeed for you."

"As for so many."

"A punishment on the unrighteous, as the Puritans tell us. Alas, it was not they who suffered. Most of them had their country houses to which they could return, while those who could not get away suffered for the sins of the unrighteous, which would seem a little unfair—if one believed in this theory, which I do not."

"Nor I," I said.

He was smiling a little ruefully.

"Enough of this sadness. 'Tis a time for rejoicing, for we have met after all this time. I have thought of you often. The little waif with her herring basket. She touched me mightily, and then when I heard that Mistress Standish was playing at Drury Lane ... well, nothing would hold me back, and then I gathered together my courage and spoke to her."

"Did it need so much courage?"

"A great deal, for if you had refused to talk to me I should have been desolate."

"I cannot see why I should refuse. I shall always remember how kindly you walked home with me."

"With you and Mistress Kitty. She took great care of you, did dear Kitty. But enough, I do not want to make you sad again. She would be pleased to see your success in your profession. You are happy about that. So let us forget all sadness. That is the best way. Tell me, where do you live? Tell me all about yourself."

"Kitty took me in to her home with Maggie Mead. We lived there and I live there still."

"I have heard of her. A lady of great character."

"That would describe her well."

"And she has taken on the role of guardian angel to the young lady recently come to the wicked city."

I laughed. "That could be so. And what of you, my lord?"

"My name is Adair. Jack Adair. Could I prevail upon you to call me Jack?"

"It seems a little ..."

He smiled. "Familiar?"

"Well, perhaps."

"Shall I tell you that nothing would please me more than such familiarity? I shall call you Sarah. May I? And I hope you will forget our brief acquaintance and call me Jack. After all, we did meet at Willerton and it is not the duration of a friendship which is so important, but its depth. I am going to be very bold and suggest that this meeting tonight is going to be the beginning of many for us. What would you say to that?"