her, when she learned from the
papers that he was dead. She was, therefore, free; but though she loved
Horatio Leavenworth with all her heart, she would not marry him. She
felt herself forever stained and soiled by the one awful year of abuse
and contamination. Nor could he persuade her. Not till the death of her
child, a month or so after his proposal, did she consent to give him her
hand and what remained of her unhappy life. He brought her to New York,
surrounded her with luxury and every tender care, but the arrow had gone
too deep; two years from the day her child breathed its last, she too
died. It was the blow of his life to Horatio Leavenworth; he was never
the same man again. Though Mary and Eleanore shortly after entered his
home, he never recovered his old light-heartedness. Money became his
idol, and the ambition to make and leave a great fortune behind him
modified all his views of life. But one proof remained that he never
forgot the wife of his youth, and that was, he could not bear to have
the word 'Englishman' uttered in his hearing."

Mr. Veeley paused, and I rose to go. "Do you remember how Mrs.
Leavenworth looked?" I asked. "Could you describe her to me?"

He seemed a little astonished at my request, but immediately replied:
"She was a very pale woman; not strictly beautiful, but of a contour and
expression of great charm. Her hair was brown, her eyes gray--"

"And very wide apart?"

He nodded, looking still more astonished. "How came you to know? Have
you seen her picture?"

I did not answer that question.

On my way downstairs, I bethought me of a letter which I had in my
pocket for Mr. Veeley's son Fred, and, knowing of no surer way of
getting it to him that night than by leaving it on the library table, I
stepped to the door of that room, which in this house was at the rear
of the parlors, and receiving no reply to my knock, opened it and looked
in.

The room was unlighted, but a cheerful fire was burning in the grate,
and by its glow I espied a lady crouching on the hearth, whom at first
glance I took for Mrs. Veeley. But, upon advancing and addressing her by
that name, I saw my mistake; for the person before me not only refrained
from replying, but, rising at the sound of my voice, revealed a form
of such noble proportions that all possibility of its being that of the
dainty little wife of my partner fled.

"I see I have made a mistake," said I. "I beg your pardon "; and would
have le