ings, and a brooch of tortured locks of hair.

Angel's eyes were dancing above a gauze fan held coquettishly against his
mouth of an impudent boy, but I gave no heed to him; I was busy with a
velvet work-box that promised a solution of the mystery--for hidden away
with thimble and scissors as one would secrete a treasure, was a fat little
book, "The Mysteries of Udolpho." Some one had drawn on the fly leaf, very
beautifully, I thought, a ribbed sea-shell, and on it had printed the
words, "Lucy from Charles;" and on a scroll beneath the shell, in
microscopic characters--"Bide the Time!"

My brother was looking over my shoulder now. We were filled with
conjecture.

"Lucy," said Angel, "owned all this stuff, and Charles was her lover, of
course. But who was she? Mrs. Handsomebody never had a daughter, I know,
and if she had she'd never have allowed her to wear these things. Look how
she jaws when Mary Ellen spends her wage on finery. I'll bet Lucy was a
beauty. And she's dead too, you can bet, and Charles was her lover, and
likely he's dead too. 'Bide the time,' eh? You see they're waitin' around
yet--_somewheres_. Isn't it queer?"

The Seraph's voice came from the window in a sort of chant:

"The little white star has fallen down the cobbler's chimney!

"It has fallen down, and the cobbler is sewing it into a shoe!

"A milkman is wunning down the stweet!

"Tell you what," whispered Angel, "I'll show you what Lucy was like--just a
little. I'll make a picture of her."

The space between two tall chests of drawers formed a sort of alcove in
which stood a pier glass, whose tarnished frame was draped in white net.
Before it Angel drew (without much caution) a high-backed chair, and on it
he began his picture.

Over the seat and almost touching the floor, he draped a frilled petticoat,
and against the back of the chair (with a foundation of formidable stays
for support) he hung a garment, which, even then, he seemed to know for a
camisole. Over all he laid a charming lilac silk gown, and under the hem in
the most natural attitude peeped the little party slippers. A small lace
and velvet bonnet with streamers was hung at the apex of the creation, and
in her lap (for the time has come to use the feminine pronoun) he spread
the gauzy fan. He hung over her tenderly, as an artist over his
subject--each fold must be in place--the empty sleeves curved just so--one
fancied a rounded chin beneath the velvet streamers, so artfu