ttempt to detain her. She had set those every-ready suspicions
of mine at work again.

Was the letter which I had sent upstairs a reply to the letter which
Minna had seen her mother writing? Was the widow now informed that the
senile old admirer who had advanced the money to pay her creditors had
been found dead in his bed? and that her promissory note had passed into
the possession of the heir-at-law? If this was the right reading of the
riddle, no wonder she had sent her daughter out of the room--no wonder
she had locked her door!

My aunt wasted no time in expressions of grief and surprise, when she was
informed of Mr. Engelman's state of health. "Send the widow here
directly," she said. "If there is anything like a true heart under that
splendid silk dress of hers, I shall write and relieve poor Engelman by
to-night's post."

To confide my private surmises, even to my aunt, would have been an act
of inexcusable imprudence, to say the least of it. I could only reply
that Madame Fontaine was not very well, and was (as I had heard from
Minna) shut up in the retirement of her own room.

The resolute little woman got on her feet instantly. "Show me where she
is, David--and leave the rest to me."

I led her to the door, and was dismissed with these words--"Go and wait
in my room till I come back to you." As I retired, I heard a smart knock,
and my aunt's voice announcing herself outside--"Mrs. Wagner, ma'am, with
something serious to say to you." The reply was inaudible. Not so my
aunt's rejoinder: "Oh, very well! Just read that letter, will you? I'll
push it under the door, and wait for an answer." I lingered for a minute
longer--and heard the door opened and closed again.

In little more than half an hour, my aunt returned. She looked serious
and thoughtful. I at once anticipated that she had failed. Her first
words informed me that I was wrong.

"I've done it," she said. "I am to write to Engelman to-night; and I have
the widow's permission to tell him that she regrets her hasty decision.
Her own words, mind, when I asked her how I should put it!"

"So there is a true heart under that splendid silk dress of hers?" I
said.

My aunt walked up and down the room, silent and frowning--discontented
with me, or discontented with herself; it was impossible to tell which.
On a sudden, she sat down by me, and hit me a smart slap on the shoulder.

"David!" she said, "I have found out something about myself which I neve