at grace which Southern blood bestows, even though it runs in the
veins of a gipsy, or such a street waif as Jessica, she walked on and
reached Johann Wilfer's house.

Jessica knew that the man was not her father, but she knew little more
than that. She had never asked him or Martha for any information about
her parentage--indeed, had scarcely wished for any; it was enough for
her than Johann gave her sufficient bread to keep life within her.

That gentleman was, at the moment of her arrival, absent, engaged on
business concerning the sale of the faked picture to Mr. Harker, and
Martha was still away; so Jessica, pausing at the door of the
living-room to ascertain that it was empty, softly ascended the stairs
leading to the garret which served as her special apartment.

It was as small and as squalid as all the other rooms in that crowded
court; but it was different from them in one respect--it was clean.

A miserable chair bedstead of the cheapest kind, covered with a
threadbare quilt; a chair with the back broken off; a washstand on three
legs, and a triangular piece of silvered glass, the remains of a cheap
mirror, composed the furniture.

This peculiarly-shaped piece of common glass reflected the girl's
beautiful face in all manner of distorted forms. The quilt just kept her
from perishing with the cold. But yet the mirror, the bed, and the room
itself were precious to her, for they were her own. Beyond its sacred
threshold Johann or Martha never passed. She had a key to it; and to
enter now she unlocked the door.

After the luxury of Adrien's rooms the mean quality of her own apartment
struck the girl more forcibly than usual, and sinking upon the bed, she
covered her face with her hands and gave way to a flood of tears. But
the weakness did not last long; and after a moment of two, with a sudden
gesture, almost Italian in its intensity, she flung back her head and
rose from her crouching position.

"I will not think of the beautiful place. I will not think of him, she
told herself passionately.

"But oh! will he be sorry that I ran away, or will he laugh, and ask
that proud servant to see that I haven't stolen anything?"

She shook her head mournfully at her own distorted reflection in the
cracked mirror, then she sighed and went downstairs.

Johann had returned, wonderful to relate, still fairly sober; but this
was probably due to the necessity of maintaining at least the appearance
of sobriety in his