sit near her, and he peeks at her book when she is reading. He is
just dying, I know, to find out who she is."

V.

THE REAL MYSTERY.

Mr. Austin Buckingham found on his table, when he returned from his walk
with Henry Wilding, a scrap of paper. It had nothing on it but the words
"The Mystery." This was the heading which he had made for his story. He
had been interrupted by his caller just as he had written the words. He
had not the remotest notion when he set them down what the mystery was
which he meant to reveal. The title now seemed like a prophecy to him.
Instead, however, of jotting down an outline of his story, he took out
his note-book and wrote busily:

"I wish I knew just what I saw this evening. I had walked out with Henry
Wilding, who called, and who was going, he said, to his cousin's. Now, I
will not conceal from my faithful journal that I was moved by a desire
to know just who his cousin was and where he or she lived; for by a most
fortunate chance I have found out that my maiden without a name lives,
or probably lives, at a Mr. Martindale's, on this street. I tried to
draw Wilding out without betraying my own interest, but he was very
obtuse, and even seemed to be ashamed of his cousin. At any rate, he
parried my questions, and of course I could not push my curiosity.
However, I got the better of him, and walked out with him when he left.
As luck would have it again, the shades were drawn at the house where he
stopped, and the bright light within made the scene perfectly distinct.
I talked on the door-step about I know not what, half hoping that
Wilding would invite me in, but really absorbed in watching two ladies
who sat by a table. One was my fair unknown, the other a lady whom I
have occasionally seen, and whom I take to be Wilding's cousin,--though
this is all guess-work. Whether she is or not, she is evidently a very
unpleasant sort of body, for, whatever she said, the other was plainly
exceedingly vexed and mortified. She covered her face with her hands. At
one time she made a movement as if to leave. She looked earnest and
troubled. I could vow she was about to burst into tears. Her face was
very expressive. No one who shows such sudden changes can help being a
person of rare sensibility. I am almost out of conceit of making her the
heroine of my story, though, to be sure, I am not likely to interfere
with her personal rights, so long as I do not know either her name or
her history.

"To