Volume 152 — THE HEROINE OF THE NEW NOVEL.

AT LAST HE HAD HIS CHANCE. "HOW MUCH IS IT TO THE MARBLE ARCH?" HE ASKED.

"TUPPENCE," SHE REPLIED SOFTLY; AND THE SIMPLE WORD RANG THROUGH EVERY FIBRE OF HIS BODY.

"BUT I CANNOT LINGER THUS WITH YOU, SIR REGINALD," SAID THE RUSTIC BEAUTY; "I HAVE TO CLEAN THE PIG-STY." SHE PAUSED, AND THEN ALMOST INAUDIBLY, "YOU MAY HELP ME, IF YOU LIKE."

SIR REGINALD VAVASOUR'S HEART LEAPT WITHIN HIM.

"OH, I'M SO FEARFULLY SORRY!" SAID A SWEET YOUNG VOICE IN DISTRESSED ACCENTS. AND THEN HE BECAME AWARE OF A DAINTY LITTLE FOOT AND ANKLE COYLY PROTRUDING FROM A BLUE TROUSER ALMOST AT A LEVEL WITH HIS EYE.

DUSK WAS DESCENDING. HIS BACK TYRE WAS PUNCTURED, AND HE WAS ALONE—LOST IN THE WILD MOORLAND. SUDDENLY A CHEERY YOUNG VOICE SMOTE UPON HIS EAR: "WHAT'S UP, OLD CHAP? CAN I BE ANY USE?"