n deception, and mental deterioration" had truly been
hers!

Even the fancied relief of weeping was a luxury denied to her, for she
feared to show the evidence of tears; thus after a little while she
strove to drive them back, and by bathing her face before the glass, and
drawing the braids of her soft hair a little nearer her eyes, she was
tolerably successful in hiding their trace. Never, when dressing for
court or gala, had she consulted her mirror so closely; and now, though
the tears were dried; she was shocked at the lines of anguish--those
delvers of the wrinkles of age--which marked her countenance. She sat
before her looking-glass, one hand supporting her head, the other
clutching the hidden letters which she had not yet the courage to open.
There was a light tap at the door.

"Who is there?" inquired Lady Lucy.

"It is I, my lady," replied Harris, her faithful maid. "Madame Dalmas is
here."

Lady Lucy unlocked her door and gave orders that the visitor should be
shown up. With the name had come a flush of hope that some trifling
temporary help would be hers. Madame Dalmas called herself a
French-woman, and signed herself "Antoinette," but she was really an
English Jewess of low extraction, whose true name was Sarah Solomons.
Her "profession" was to purchase--and sell--the cast-off apparel of
ladies of fashion; and few of the sisterhood have carried the art of
double cheating to so great a proficiency. With always a roll of bank
notes in her old leathern pocket-book, and always a dirty canvas bag full
of bright sovereigns in her pocket, she had ever the subtle temptation
for her victims ready.

Madame Dalmas--for she must be called according to the name engraved on
her card--was a little meanly-dressed woman of about forty, with bright
eyes and a hooked nose, a restless shuffling manner, and an ill-pitched
voice. Her jargon was a mixture of bad French and worse English.

"Bon jour, miladi Lucy," she exclaimed, as she entered Lady Lucy's
sanctum, "need not inquire of health, you look si charmante. Oh, si
belle!--that make you wear old clothes so longer dan oder ladies, and
have so leetel for me to buy. Milady Lucy Ferrars know she look well in
anything, but yet she should not wear old clothes: no right--for
example--for de trade, and de hoosband always like de wife well
dressed--ha--ha!"

Poor Lady Lucy! Too sick at heart to have any relish for Madame Dalmas'
nauseous compliments, and more than half awar