He had long been known by his neighbours only as John, so that there was no chance of her discovering who he was.

Sometimes the memory of that October day in Regent's Park came up to haunt him and poison even the comfort of the little letter.

Yet why should she not have forgotten him?
and why should not Scarfe, the man with a character, be more to her than he, the man with none?
Yet he tried bravely to banish all, save the one thought that it _was_ she who bade him hope and take courage.
He worked well and patiently at the temporary manual labour on which he was employed, and when that came to an end he looked about resolutely for more.
Meanwhile--do not smile, reader--he made an investment of capital! In other words, he spent threepence in pen, ink, paper, and a candle, and spent one night in his lonely garret writing.

It was a letter, addressed to a stranger, on a public question.

In other words, it was an article to a London paper on, "Life in a Slum, by One who Lives There." It was a quiet, unsensational paper, with some practical suggestions for the improvement of poor people's dwellings, and a few true stories of experiences in which the writer himself had taken a part.
He dropped it doubtfully into the editor's box and tried to forget about it.