d her pale, emaciated face spoke plainly of
poverty, hardship and suffering. Even Giovanni Massetti would have with
difficulty recognized in this wretched outcast the once shapely and
beautiful flower-girl of the Piazza del Popolo, for the applicant at the
Refuge door was no other than the ill-fated Annunziata Solara. Her
beauty had faded away like a summer dream, vanished as the perfume from
a withered hyacinth. She stood before the portress silently, with
clasped hands, the incarnation of misery, distress and desertion.

"What do you require, my poor child?" asked the portress, tenderly and
sympathetically.

"Shelter, only shelter!" replied the girl, beseechingly, in a hollow,
broken voice, the ghost of her former full and joyous tones.

"The Superior must decide upon your case," said the portress. "You shall
go to her at once."

The woman touched a bell, directing the Sister of the Order of Refuge
who answered it to conduct the applicant to the apartment of Madame de
Rancogne. The trembling Annunziata was led through a long corridor and
ushered into a small, but cosy office in which sat an elderly lady of
commanding and aristocratic presence, whose head was covered with curls
of silver hair, and whose still handsome countenance wore an expressive
look in which compassion and benevolence predominated. This lady was the
celebrated Madame Helena de Rancogne, whose adventures and exploits as
the Countess of Monte-Cristo had in the past electrified every European
nation. She arose as Annunziata entered, welcoming her with a cordial,
comforting smile.

"Sit down, my child," she said, in a rich, melodious voice. "You are
fatigued. Are you also hungry?"

Annunziata sank into the chair offered her, covering her face with her
thin hands.

"Alas! signora," she replied, faintly, "I have walked many weary miles
and have not tasted a morsel of food since dawn!"

"Take the poor child to the refectory," said the Countess to the Sister,
who had remained standing near the door. "After her hunger has been
appeased, I will see her again and question her."

Half an hour later, Annunziata, refreshed and strengthened by her meal,
once more sat in the office with the Countess of Monte-Cristo.

"My child," said the latter, "what is your name?"

"Annunziata Solara."

"You have applied for shelter here the portress informs me. Do you know
that this is an asylum for the fallen of your sex?"

"I know it, signora; that is the reas