ft the room, but something in the general attitude of the lady
before me restrained me, and, believing it to be Mary Leavenworth, I
inquired:

"Can it be this is Miss Leavenworth?"

The noble figure appeared to droop, the gently lifted head to fall, and
for a moment I doubted if I had been correct in my supposition. Then
form and head slowly erected themselves, a soft voice spoke, and I heard
a low "yes," and hurriedly advancing, confronted--not Mary, with her
glancing, feverish gaze, and scarlet, trembling lips--but Eleanore, the
woman whose faintest look had moved me from the first, the woman whose
husband I believed myself to be even then pursuing to his doom!

The surprise was too great; I could neither sustain nor conceal it.
Stumbling slowly back, I murmured something about having believed it
to be her cousin; and then, conscious only of the one wish to fly a
presence I dared not encounter in my present mood, turned, when her
rich, heart-full voice rose once more and I heard:

"You will not leave me without a word, Mr. Raymond, now that chance has
thrown us together?" Then, as I came slowly forward: "Were you so very
much astonished to find me here?"

"I do not know--I did not expect--" was my incoherent reply. "I had
heard you were ill; that you went nowhere; that you had no wish to see
your friends."

"I have been ill," she said; "but I am better now, and have come to
spend the night with Mrs. Veeley, because I could not endure the stare
of the four walls of my room any longer."

This was said without any effort at plaintiveness, but rather as if she
thought it necessary to excuse herself for being where she was.

"I am glad you did so," said I. "You ought to be here all the while.
That dreary, lonesome boarding-house is no place for you, Miss
Leavenworth. It distresses us all to feel that you are exiling yourself
at this time."

"I do not wish anybody to be distressed," she returned. "It is best for
me to be where I am. Nor am I altogether alone. There is a child there
whose innocent eyes see nothing but innocence in mine. She will keep me
from despair. Do not let my friends be anxious; I can bear it." Then, in
a lower tone: "There is but one thing which really unnerves me; and
that is my ignorance of what is going on at home. Sorrow I can bear, but
suspense is killing me. Will you not tell me something of Mary and home?
I cannot ask Mrs. Veeley; she is kind, but has no real knowledge of Mary
or me,