night of
tears and sleeplessness. The third day came and passed, and still
Reginald Stanford never returned. The evening of the third day brought
her a letter, with Napoleon's head on the corner.

"Hotel Du Louvre, Paris, April 10.

My Dear Mrs. Stanford:--For you have still the unhappiness
of bearing that odious name, although I have no doubt Captain
Danton will shortly take the proper steps to relieve you of it.
According to promise, I have rid you of my hateful presence, and
forever. You see I am in brilliant Paris, in a palatial hotel,
enjoying all the luxuries wealth can procure, and Madame Millefleur
is my companion. The contrast between my life this week and my life
last is somewhat striking. The frowning countenance of Mrs.
Stanford is replaced by the ever-smiling face of my dark-eyed
Adele, and the shabby lodgings in Crown street, Strand, are
exchanged for this chamber of Eastern gorgeousness. I am happy, and
so, no doubt, are you. Go back to Canada, my dear Mrs. Stanford.
Papa will receive his little runaway with open arms, and kill the
fatted calf to welcome her. The dear Jules may still be faithful,
and you may yet be thrice blessed as Madame La Touche. Ah, I
forget--you belong to the Church, and so does he, that does not
believe in divorce. What a pity!

"I beg you will feel no uneasiness upon pecuniary matters, my dear
Rose. I write by this post to our good landlady, inclosing the next
six months' rent, and in this you will find a check for all present
wants.

"I believe this is all I have to say, and Adele is waiting for me
to escort her on a shopping expedition. Adieu, my Rose; believe me,
with the best wishes for your future happiness, to be Ever your
friend,

"Reginald Reinecourt Stanford."

CHAPTER XXIV.

COALS OF FIRE.

One afternoon, about a fortnight after the receipt of that letter from
France, Rose Stanford sat alone once more in the shabby little parlour
of the London lodging-house. It was late in April, but a fire burned
feebly in the little grate, and she sat cowering over it wrapped in a
large shawl. She had changed terribly during these two weeks; she had
grown old, and hollow-eyed, a haggard, worn, wretched woman.

It was her third day up, this April afternoon, for a low, miserable
fever had confined her to her bed, and worn her to the pa