and depression.

At the sofa's further end sits a plump and pleasant person, whose aspect
seems to hint that, if she have any weak point, it must be anything
rather than her excellent heart. From her twilight dress, neither dawn
nor dark, apparently she is a widow just breaking the chrysalis of her
mourning. A small gilt testament is in her hand, which she has just been
reading. Half-relinquished, she holds the book in reverie, her finger
inserted at the xiii. of 1st Corinthians, to which chapter possibly her
attention might have recently been turned, by witnessing the scene of
the monitory mute and his slate.

The sacred page no longer meets her eye; but, as at evening, when for a
time the western hills shine on though the sun be set, her thoughtful
face retains its tenderness though the teacher is forgotten.

Meantime, the expression of the stranger is such as ere long to attract
her glance. But no responsive one. Presently, in her somewhat
inquisitive survey, her volume drops. It is restored. No encroaching
politeness in the act, but kindness, unadorned. The eyes of the lady
sparkle. Evidently, she is not now unprepossessed. Soon, bending over,
in a low, sad tone, full of deference, the stranger breathes, "Madam,
pardon my freedom, but there is something in that face which strangely
draws me. May I ask, are you a sister of the Church?"

"Why--really--you--"

In concern for her embarrassment, he hastens to relieve it, but, without
seeming so to do. "It is very solitary for a brother here," eying the
showy ladies brocaded in the background, "I find none to mingle souls
with. It may be wrong--I _know_ it is--but I cannot force myself to be
easy with the people of the world. I prefer the company, however
silent, of a brother or sister in good standing. By the way, madam, may
I ask if you have confidence?"

"Really, sir--why, sir--really--I--"

"Could you put confidence in _me_ for instance?"

"Really, sir--as much--I mean, as one may wisely put in a--a--stranger,
an entire stranger, I had almost said," rejoined the lady, hardly yet at
ease in her affability, drawing aside a little in body, while at the
same time her heart might have been drawn as far the other way. A
natural struggle between charity and prudence.

"Entire stranger!" with a sigh. "Ah, who would be a stranger? In vain, I
wander; no one will have confidence in me."

"You interest me," said the good lady, in mild surprise. "Can I any way
befriend