s.

"I don't know why it is, but there is something about this young
female that interests me very much. Have you yet learned her name?"

"It is Lizzy Glenn--so I was told at the clothing store for which
she works."

"Lizzy Glenn! An assumed name, in all probability."

"Very likely. It sounds as if it might be," said Perkins.

"If I were you," remarked the friend, "I would learn something
certain about this stranger; if for no other reason, on account of
the singular association of her, in your involuntary thought, with
Miss Ballantine. She may be a relative; and, if so, it would afford
a melancholy pleasure to relieve her from her present unhappy
condition, for the sake of the one in heaven."

"I have already tried to find her; but she was not at the number
where Michael said she resided."

"She may not have given him the right direction," said Milford.

"So he pretends to infer. But I would rather believe that Michael
has purposely deceived me than that she would be guilty of
falsehood."

"If I see her again," said Milford, "I will endeavor, by all means,
to discover her place of residence."

"Do, if you would oblige me. It is my purpose not to lose sight of
her at our next meeting, be it where it may. Our present
conversation has awakened a deeper interest, and stimulated a more
active curiosity. I am no blind believer in chance, Milford. I do
not regard this meeting with the stranger as something only
fortuitous. There is a Providence in all the events of life, and I
am now firmly assured that these encounters with the seamstress are
not merely accidental, as the world regards accidents, but events in
a chain of circumstances that, when complete, will result in
positive good. Of the nature of that good--as to who will be blessed
or benefitted--I do not pretend to divine. I only feel ready to act
my part in the drama of life. I must and will know more about this
stranger."

CHAPTER VII.

HENRY GASTON LEAVES HOME WITH SHARP.

AS little Henry, after parting with his mother, hurried on by the
side of Mr. Sharp, who took his way directly across the bridge
leading over to Charlestown, where he had left the chaise in which
he had ridden from Lexington, a handsome carriage, containing a
mother and three happy children, about the age of himself, Emma, and
the sister who had just died, drove rapidly by. The children were
full of spirits, and, in their thoughtless glee, called out gayly,
but with wor