Mary Grey thanked each in succession and declined the kind offer, adding that she expected some one to come for her.
At last nearly everybody had left the room but the treasurer of the festival, who was counting the receipts, and the sexton, who was covering the tables, preparatory to closing for the night.
Alden Lytton had lingered to make a quiet donation to the charity, and he was passing out, when, he saw Mary Grey standing shivering near the door.
As he came up to her she stepped out into the darkness and the rain.
He hastened after her, exclaiming:
"Mrs. Grey! I beg your pardon! Are you alone?"
"Yes, Mr. Lytton," she answered, quietly.
"And you have no umbrella!" he said, quickly, as he hoisted his own and stepped to her side. "Permit me to see you safe to your door. Take my arm. It is very dark and the walking is dangerous. The sidewalks are turned to brooks by this storm," he added, as he held his umbrella carefully over her.
"I thank you very much, Mr. Lytton; but indeed I do not wish to give you so much trouble. I can go home quite well enough alone. I have often to do it," she answered, shrinking away from him.
"It is not safe for you to do so, especially on such a night as this. Will you take my arm?" he said; and, without waiting for her answer, he took her hand and drew it through his arm and walked on with her in silence, wondering at and blaming the heartlessness of the ladies of her circle who had carriages in attendance, and had, as he supposed, every one of them, gone off without offering this poor lonely creature a seat, leaving her to get home through the night and storm as she could.