"What could I say until I know what follows?"

"How wise. How cautious. The more I know you, the more you delight me."

^X e talked in this light bantering way until suddenly I realized that the time was passing and Maggie would be wondering where I was.

I said I must go. He looked a little disappointed but he did not seek to detain me and said instead he would walk home with me.

As we walked the short distance to Maggie's house, I realized that I had not felt so happy since Kitty died. I found this man's company exhilarating and I was delighted because of his insistence that we must meet again.

When I said goodbye to him he once more took my hand and held it for a few seconds before he raised it to his lips.

"It has been so wonderful to find you," he said. Then he smiled and added: "Rest assured that, having done so, I shall not let you elude me again."

I laughed, pretending to believe that it was merely gallant words, not to be taken too seriously.

But how I hoped this was not so.

I was eager to tell Maggie of my meeting with this gentleman, but as soon as I entered I knew that something had happened. Before I saw Maggie, Martha came to me. She had that eager and excited look people have when they have some surprising news. Whether good or bad, it makes no difference. They know something you do not and they cannot wait to tell you.

"Martha," I began, "is Mistress Maggie all right?"

She lowered her voice. "She's in a bit of a state. Miss Sarah. It's that nephew of hers."

Nephew? I remembered vaguely that Maggie's sister lived in the country somewhere and she had a son. This would be the nephew.

"What ... ?" I began.

"He's here." She pointed towards the parlor door which was shut.

"With Mistress Maggie?"

"Shut in together. It's talk, talk. He's come all the way from Dorsetshire. What it means, only the Lord knows."

"I am sure Mistress Maggie will know as well by now, Martha," I said. "Has she said anything to you?"

"No. He's had a bit to eat and he's to stay the night. I'll have to make him up a bed in the parlor. What I do know is that Mistress Maggie is all in a daze, which is not like her."

"She's in the parlor, is she?"

"Yes, with him."

"riI'lll go and see what is wrong."

I knocked at the door of the parlor and was bidden to enter.

Maggie was seated on a chair and beside her sat a man who must have been in his twenties, not unlike Maggie in appearance.

"Oh, Sarah," she said, and I fancied it was with relief. Had she been uneasy because I was late? No, I realized this crisis had driven everything else from her mind.

"Come along in, Sarah. This is my nephew. Master Abel Bagley." She turned to the young man. "Mistress Standish is a great friend of mine. She lives here."

The young man stood up and bowed.

"Sit down, Sarah," said Maggie. "I must tell you what has happened. My sister Rachel is very ill ... not expected to live. She is eager to see me. It is years since we have seen each other. Not since I first came to London. But now there is little time left to her she is most anxious that we should be together."

"I see," I said.

"Abel wants me to go back with him to Dorset."

"That is a very long way."

"It is so indeed, but Abel has made the journey. I shall go back with him."

"When do you suggest you go?"

"Abel will go back tomorrow. I shall go with him."

"But how?"

"By stage wagon."

I looked at her in horror. I had heard of the stage wagons. It was not very long ago that they had come into being. I guessed the journey to Dorset would take a week or more and, of course, it would be far from comfortable. But there was an air of determination about Maggie. I knew her well and I knew that she had made up her mind.

She came to me in my room that night. Neither of us could sleep. The effect of Maggie's news had put from my mind temporarily the excitement of the meeting with Lord Rosslyn.

She wanted to tell me what was on her mind, so she sat on the bed and we talked. She told me more about her life in that Puritan household where she had been brought up. Her sister Rachel had been her parents' favorite.

"Rachel was made in their pattern," she said. "I never was. She was a good little Puritan. I was a rebel. And she married Jacob Bagley, another such as our father. A righteous man, my father called him, which meant that he hardly ever smiled and thought it was a sin to be happy. I did not know how Rachel could have married him, but she did and with our parents' blessing, so she was proclaimed a good and dutiful daughter. I could not endure it. I left and came to London. I wanted so much to be an actress, but there was no opportunity in those days. That was when Kitty and I became friends. When I married Tom Mead I went back to see my family. It was not very successful. I knew that I could never be as they were. Rachel and I were quite different. Rachel tried to be friends but it was not easy. I could not endure that way of life. I left in a temper and I did not hear any more of her after that ... until now. She is asking for me, Sarah. She is dying. I cannot refuse to go."

"But it is such a long way, Maggie. It is a very trying journey by stage wagon."

"How otherwise should I go? I should never forgive myself if I did not give her her dying wish. I know how she is. Abel tells me she has this on her mind. We parted on ill terms. Mind you, she will have convinced herself that the fault was mine, but on the other hand, does it not say somewhere in the Bible that one should not let the sun go down on one's anger? Love one another, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive others? And although I am the unrighteous one—already in the angels' black books for my desire to appear upon the stage—there is just the possibility that someone up there may have a distorted way of passing judgment ... and her place in Heaven may be in jeopardy."

I could not help smiling. Maggie always made me smile.

"As for me," she went on, "well, she is my sister. She was all right when we were very young, before she was caught up with Jacob Bagley and learned to see sin everywhere she looked. Mind you, she had had a fairly good apprenticeship with our parents and it suited her nature better than mine—it's the truth, Sarah. But I could not be at peace with myself if I did not do all I could to bring us together. We are sisters. There is a bond between us which nothing can change ... the same flesh and blood. Do you understand, or am I ranting on?"

"I do understand, Maggie, and I see that you will not be happy if you do not go. But come back soon."

"You can be sure of that," she said.

The next day she left on the stage wagon for Dorset.

I had not mentioned my meeting with Lord Rosslyn. I had thought of it on the previous evening but Maggie was, of course, too immersed in her own problem to want to listen to a little light gossip. So I had refrained from mentioning it.

I thought much later of what a big part chance plays in our lives.

But for the arrival of Abel Bagley, my life might have turned out quite differently from the way it did.

My relationship with Jack Adair—as I thought of him now— progressed rapidly. I knew that he was a most impatient man and when he had made up his mind he wanted something, he pursued it relentlessly.

He was charming and gallant. He was the most interesting person I had ever met. In a few weeks he had shown me that without a doubt he cared a good deal for me.

I lived in a blissful dream. I had scarcely given a thought to Kitty for days at a time.

I was happy. He would be waiting for me after the theater. Because we had first gone to the Covent Garden Coffee House, coffee houses would always mean something special to him, he told me. So we visited others. We went to the Rainbow in Fleet Street—the first of them all—and Tom's in Change Alley, but we came back to the Covent Garden, which had now become Will's.

How I wished I could tell Maggie about this wonderful friendship of mine. I expected her home at any time now. She would have seen her sister, had a reconciliation and have eased her conscience. That was all she had to do. Every day I expected that she would be back. But the days went by and I had to admit that I did not miss Maggie quite as much as I should have done if Jack Adair had not been there to beguile me. Also, I hardly ever thought of Kitty during those days. I was completely absorbed by this friendship with what was surely the most fascinating man in the world.

He was always so courtly, so tender, and he paid me such delightful compliments. In fact, had he been younger, I should have thought he was in love with me.

I told myself that he regarded himself as a father to me. He had never married. At least, he did not actually say he had not, but I assumed it was so and he did not say anything to the contrary. He had lodgings in London, and he referred sometimes to a place in the country, but he did not talk much about himself.

It was the beginning of September when a man who had traveled from Dorsetshire on the stage wagon called at the house. Martha was full of excitement when I came in that evening.

"He comes from Dorchester, and lives not far from Maggie's sister, and she gave him this letter to bring to you."

"Oh," I cried. "That is wonderful! It means she is coming home."

I opened it eagerly and while Martha and Rose looked on I read it.

Dear Sarah,

I dare say you think I am a long time coming home. Well, when I saw how things were here, I could not leave.

Rachel is very ill. The apothecary says she cannot live long. There is no one here to look after her as she should be looked after. Abel does his best, but he has to work and you know what men are ... so I must needs stay a while. I could not leave her thus. She is my sister. She rejoices that I am here.

I do not think it will be long. My poor sister is very sick indeed, and all I know is that I could not leave her now,

I shall be back as soon as I can get there.

I miss you all.

I read the letter aloud to Martha and Rose. We were all bitterly disappointed.

In Will's, the Covent Garden coffee house, I told Jack of the letter I had received from Maggie.

"You miss her?" he asked.

"Indeed I do."

"She was your watchdog?"

"That is not a good way of describing her. She likes to look after me. She thinks a young girl needs someone to look after her in a city like this."

"And now she is away ... do you enjoy your freedom?''

"I miss her very much. I was so disappointed to hear she was not coming back yet."

"Do you not find it a little ... irksome?"

"Irksome?"

"To have someone restricting your freedom."

"I have never thought of it that way. I have always been grateful to Maggie. She has been a wonderful friend to me."

He took my hand and said: "I would be a wonderful friend to you ... if you would permit it."

I said: "I have your friendship now. I treasure it."

He gave me a rather wistful smile. Then he talked about the lodgings he had in London.

"A pleasant enough place," he said. "I take these rooms in this house. Below me live the good woman and her husband who look after my needs. I should like to show them to you."

"I should like to see them."

"Then you shall. Then you can picture me in my rooms, as I can picture you in the house of the good Maggie Mead. Why not this evening?"

We left the coffee house, and he took me to those rooms. When I look back I can smile at my innocence, but it must be remembered that I had not been very long in London. I had never met anyone like this man before. His courtly charm, his good manners, made him seem like a knight of old, chivalrous, a defender of the weak, the perfect gentleman.

He unlocked the door of his apartment and led me in.

There were a sitting room and a bedroom, and some other rooms, all tastefully furnished.

"I am well looked after here," he told me. "I come and go much as I please. I have friends to stay when I wish."

"You have charming lodgings," I told him.

And then everything changed. He took my cloak from me and threw it on to the bed.

"Sarah," he said, and his voice sounded hoarse and different. "I love you. I've been very patient, but at last you have come to me.