re pleasant, yet your ascent more rapid."

Ardworth knit his brows, and his countenance assumed an expression of
doubt and curiosity. However, he only replied, with a blunt laugh,--

"You must be wise indeed if you have discovered a royal road to
distinction.

'Ah, who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud
temple shines afar!'

A more sensible exclamation than poets usually preface with their
whining 'Ahs' and 'Ohs!'"

"What we are is nothing," pursued Madame Dalibard; "what we seem is
much."

Ardworth thrust his hands into his pockets and shook his head. The wise
woman continued, unheeding his dissent from her premises,--

"Everything you are taught to value has a likeness, and it is that
likeness which the world values. Take a man out of the streets, poor and
ragged, what will the world do with him? Send him to the workhouse, if
not to the jail. Ask a great painter to take that man's portrait,--rags,
squalor, and all,--and kings will bid for the picture. You would thrust
the man from your doors, you would place the portrait in your palaces.
It is the same with qualities; the portrait is worth more than the
truth. What is virtue without character? But a man without virtue may
thrive on a character! What is genius without success? But how often you
bow to success without genius! John Ardworth, possess yourself of the
portraits,--win the character; seize the success."

"Madame," exclaimed Ardworth, rudely, "this is horrible!"

"Horrible it may be," said Madame Dalibard, gently, and feeling,
perhaps, that she had gone too far; "but it is the world's judgment.
Seem, then, as well as be. You have virtue, as I believe. Well, wrap
yourself in it--in your closet. Go into the world, and earn character.
If you have genius, let it comfort you. Rush into the crowd, and get
success."

"Stop!" cried Ardworth; "I recognize you. How could I be so blind? It
is you who have written to me, and in the same strain; you have robbed
yourself,--you, poor sufferer,--to throw extravagance into these strong
hands. And why? What am I to you?" An expression of actual fondness
softened Lucretia's face as she looked up at him and replied: "I will
tell you hereafter what you are to me. First, I confess that it is I
whose letters have perplexed, perhaps offended you. The sum that I sent
I do not miss. I have more,--will ever have more at your command; never
fear. Yes, I wish you to go into the world, not as a depend