would have done, in my place--I followed her.

She looked round--discovered me--and instantly quickened her pace.
Reaching the westward end of the Strand, she crossed the street and
suddenly entered a shop.

I looked through the window, and saw her speak to a respectable elderly
person behind the counter, who darted an indignant look at me, and at
once led my charming stranger into a back office. For the moment, I
was fool enough to feel puzzled; it was out of my character you will
say--but remember, all men are fools when they first fall in love. After
a little while I recovered the use of my senses. The shop was at the
corner of a side street, leading to the market, since removed to make
room for the railway. "There's a back entrance to the house!" I thought
to myself--and ran down the side street. Too late! the lovely fugitive
had escaped me. Had I lost her forever in the great world of London? I
thought so at the time. Events will show that I never was more mistaken
in my life.

I was in no humor to call on my friend. It was not until another day had
passed that I sufficiently recovered my composure to see poverty staring
me in the face, and to understand that I had really no alternative but
to ask the good-natured artist to lend me a helping hand.

I had heard it darkly whispered that he was something of a vagabond. But
the term is so loosely applied, and it seems so difficult, after all, to
define what a vagabond is, or to strike the right moral balance between
the vagabond work which is boldly published, and the vagabond work which
is reserved for private circulation only, that I did not feel justified
in holding aloof from my former friend. Accordingly, I renewed our