of significance. It's crammed with ideas—of one kind and another."
"Yes," Murdoch answered, as before.
Ffrench approached him and laid his hand weakly on his shoulder.
"You are a fellow of ideas," he said, "and you have a good deal before you. Whatever disappointments you might meet with, you would always have a great deal before you. You have ideas. I," with apparent inconsequence, "I haven't, you know."
Murdoch looked somewhat puzzled, but he did not contradict him, so he repeated his statement.
"I haven't, you know. I wish I had."
Then he dropped his hand and looked indefinite again.
"I should like you to always remember that I am your friend," he said. "I wish I could have been of more service to you. You are a fine fellow, Murdoch. I have admired you—I have liked you. Don't forget it."
And he went away carrying the burden of his indecision and embarrassment and good intention with much amiable awkwardness.
That day Murdoch did not see Rachel Ffrench. Circumstances occurred which kept him at work until a late hour. The next day it was the same story, and the next also. A series of incidents seemed to combine against him, and the end of each day found him worn out and fretted. But on the fourth he was free again, and early in the evening found himself within sight of the iron gates. Every pulse in his body throbbed as he passed through them. He was full of intense expectation. He could scarcely bear to think of what was before him. His desperate happiness was a kind of pain. One of his chief longings was that he might find her wearing the pale blue
