e went out of the room, Elizabeth fell upon her knees by the couch, and
groaned aloud.

"Oh! I am no longer myself! What wonder! what wonder!"

She drew a letter from her bosom and began to read it, moaning and
crying as she read; then she threw it in the fire, stood watching till
the last fragments were consumed, then sinking into a chair, buried her
face in her hands. She remained a long time in that despondent attitude,
her whole frame shaking at intervals with nervous tremors, and her
breath struggling upwards in shuddering gasps.

There was a knock at the door at length.

"Who is there?" she called sharply; "what do you want?"

"Miss Elsie wished to know if you were coming to tea," said a servant.
"There is a gentleman come to see Mr. Mellen from the city, ma'am."

Elizabeth started up and went on dressing; as was usual with her after
one of those strange excitements, a sudden fever crimsoned her cheeks
and brightened her eyes.

She went downstairs and received her guest with affable grace, which
contrasted painfully with her late excitement, and before the evening
was over, seemed to have forgotten the hasty words she had spoken to
Mellen, and was like her old self again.

CHAPTER XLV.

THE TIGER IN HIS DEN.

IT was a small room, in one of those mysterious hotels in the narrow
streets near the Battery, which appear to be usually appropriated to
foreigners, and about which dark-whiskered, sallow-faced individuals may
be seen lingering at all hours of the day, their very faded, seedy
appearance calling up images of duns, scant dinners, and a whole train
of petty evils.

The chamber was small, but not uncomfortably furnished, though the
articles had originally been of the tawdry fashion which such places
affect, and had probably not been new by several stages when first
established there.

The remains of a fire smouldered in the little grate, but the ashes were
strewn over the hearth. The torn and frayed carpet was littered with
loose cards, and the whole apartment was in hopeless confusion which
added greatly to its original discomfort.

In the centre of the room was a small table covered with empty champagne
bottles and glasses, standing in half dried puddles of wine, with a
bronze receiver overflowing with cigar ashes all huddled untidily
together, and giving repulsive evidence of a long night of dissipation.

The low bedstead had its moth-eaten, miserable attempt at a canopy swept
back a