to be almost penniless.
But I will give you his own words:

''I explained to her my desperate position, when she replied: 'It
matters not; in return for the fortune you have squandered, I will give
you that which shall produce an income far beyond your boyish dreams.'

''A horrible suspicion flashed across my mind; I feared her reason was
impaired.

'''Adele,' I exclaimed, 'in mercy, jest not; but explain yourself.'

'''I will, Arthur; but first of all, I must exact from you the most
solemn vow, that under no circumstances will you divulge to mortal man
or woman, the secret I am about to confide to you.''

'At this point, Mr. Livermore checked himself suddenly, as if he had
said too much, and then added:

''I regret, my dear sir, that I can merely add, that I gave Adele the
solemn pledge she required, and that my presence here, in the city of
Mexico, to-day, is merely the result of the secret then intrusted to
me.'

'I was still under the impression that this narrative had produced, when
Adele softly entered the apartment.

''Arthur,' said she, in a low whisper, 'there is some one knocking at
the door of the ante-chamber.'

''Remain here,' said he, rising from his seat, 'I will go and open it.'

''Do not let him go alone, I beg of you,' said Adele. 'Who knows of
what service your presence may be to-day, or of what value your
testimony may be hereafter? Possibly, it may save money, if not life;
but why go without your hat and gloves?' she added, as I was leaving the
room bare-headed, 'you must pass for a visitor, not for a
fellow-lodger.'

'Lost in admiration of her ready tact and coolness, I reached Arthur
Livermore's sitting-room, just as he opened the door.

''Pepito,' exclaimed he.

''Ay, Caballero, Pepito himself, in perfect health, and ever your most
devoted servant.''

[TO BE CONCLUDED.]

* * * * *

CHANGED.

I can not tell what change has come to you,
Since when, amid the pine-trees' murmurous stir,
You spoke to me of love most deep and true:
I only know you are not as you were.

It is not that you fail in tender speech;
You speak to me as kindly as of old;
But yet there is a depth I do not reach,
A doubt that makes my heart grow sick and cold.

True, there has been no anger and no strife;
I only feel, with dreary discontent,
That something bright has vanished from my life;
I know not what it is, nor where it went