had been written by a dear
friend of Mrs. Allandale's youth--one who had been both school and
roommate, and who unreservedly confided all her secrets and
experiences to her bosom companion. And yet, it was strange, Edith
thought, that she had never heard her mother speak of this friend.

It seemed that there had been quite an interval in their
correspondence, for the writer spoke of the surprise which her friend
would experience upon receiving a letter from her from that locality,
when she had probably believed her to be in her own home, living the
quiet life of a dutiful daughter.

Then it spoke of an "ideal love" that "had come to beautify her life;"
of a noble and wealthy artist who had won her heart, but who, for some
unaccountable reason, had not been acceptable to her parents, and they
had sternly rejected his proposal for her hand.

Next came the _denouement_, which told that the girl had eloped with
her lover and flown with him to Italy.

"I suppose it was not the right thing to do, darling," the missive
ran; "but papa, you know, is a very austere, relentless man, and when
he has once made up his mind, there is no hope of ever turning him; so
I have taken my fate into my own hands--or, rather, I have given it
into the keeping of my dear one, and we are so happy, Edith darling,
and lead an ideal life in this quaint old city of the seven hills, at
whose feet runs, like a thread of gold, the yellow Tiber. My husband
is everything to me--so noble, so kind, so generous; it is so very
strange that papa could not like him--that is the only drop of
bitterness in my overflowing cup of happiness."

There was much more of the same tenor, from which it is not necessary
to quote; and, after reading the letter through, Edith took up
another, interested to know how the pretty love-story of her mother's
friend would terminate. The second one, written a month later, was
more subdued, but not less tender, although the young girl thought she
detected a vein of sadness running through it.

The next two or three mentioned the fact that the writer was left much
alone, her "dear one" being obliged to be away a great deal of the
time, upon sketching expeditions, etc.

After an interval of three months another letter spoke in the fondest
manner of the "dear little stranger," that had come to bless and cheer
her loneliness--"lonely, dear Edith, because my husband's art
monopolizes his time, while he is often absent from home a we