ughed and shook her head, and went upstairs. How long the few
stairs seemed! Or was it that her legs seemed to have become like lead?

As she passed Mrs. Lorton's room, that lady's voice called to her. Nell
opened the door, leaning against it.

"Is that you, Eleanor?" said Mrs. Lorton. "What a noise you made coming
in! Really, I think you might have shown some consideration. You know
how lightly I sleep. I've the news for you." There was a touch of
self-satisfaction in her voice. "A letter has come. Here it is. You had
better read it and think over it."

Nell crossed the room unsteadily in the dim flicker of the night light,
and took the letter held out to her--took it mechanically--wished Mrs.
Lorton good night, and went to her own room.

Before she had got there she had forgotten the letter, and it fell from
her hand as she dropped on her knees beside the bed, her arms flung wide
over the white counterpane, her whole frame shaking.

"Drake, Drake, Drake!" rose from her quivering lips. "Oh, God! pity
me--pity me! I cannot bear it--I cannot bear it!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

Nell woke with that sickening sense of loss which all of us have
experienced--that is, all of us who have gone to bed with sorrow lying
heavily upon our hearts. The autumnal sun was pouring in through the
windows, the birds were singing; some of them waiting on the tree
outside for the crumbs which Nell had been in the habit, ever since she
was a child, of throwing to them. Even in her misery of last night she
had not forgotten the birds; in the misery of her awakening she
remembered them, and went unsteadily to the lattice window.

The keen air, as it blew upon her face, brought the full consciousness
of the sorrow that had befallen her.

Yesterday morning she was the happiest girl in all the world; this
morning she was the most wretched.

She put her hands to her face, as if some one had struck her, and she
called all her woman's courage to meet and combat her trouble. The
bright world seemed pressing down upon her heavily, the shrill notes of
the birds clamoring their gratitude as they greedily fought for the
crumbs, pierced through her head. She swayed to and fro, as if she were
about to fall; for, in the young, mental anguish produces an absolute
physical pain, and her head as well as her heart was aching.

She would have liked to have thrown herself upon the bed, but Dick would
be clamoring for his breakfast presently, and Mrs. Lor