f my
barber."

"And, I venture to say, liked it all," said she, with an outbreak of
frank enjoyment in his description.

"Upon my life, I believe you are right," said he. "One gets a zest for a
pursuit till everything else appears valueless save the one object; and,
for my own part, I acknowledge I have the same pride in the success of
my new tenor or my prima donna, as though I had my share in the gifts
which secure it."

"I can fancy all that," said she, in a low, soft voice. And then,
stealing a look of half admiration at her visitor, she dropped her eyes
again suddenly, with a slight show of confusion.

"I assure you," continued he, with warmth, "the season I brought out
Cianchettoni, whenever he sang a little huskily I used to tell my
friends I was suffering with a sore-throat."

"What a deal of sympathy it betrays in your nature!" said she, with a
bewitching smile. "And talking of sore-throats, don't sit there in the
draught, but take this chair, here." And she pointed to one at her side.

As Stocmar obeyed, he was struck by the beauty of her profile. It was
singularly regular, and more youthful in expression than her full face
He was so conscious of having looked at her admiringly that he hastened
to cover the awkwardness of the moment by plunging at once into the
question of business. "Trover has informed me, madam," began he, "as to
the circumstances in which my very humble services can be made available
to you. He tells me that you have a daughter--"

"Not a daughter, sir," interrupted she, in a low, confidential voice, "a
niece,--the daughter of a sister now no more."

The agitation the words cost her increased Stocmar's confusion, as
though he had evidently opened a subject of family affliction. Yes, her
handkerchief was to her eyes, and her shoulders heaved convulsively.
"Mr. Stocmar," said she, with an effort which seemed to cost her deeply,
"though we meet for the first time, I am no stranger to your character.
I know your generosity, and your high sense of honor. I am well aware
how persons of the highest station are accustomed to confide in your
integrity, and in that secrecy which is the greatest test of integrity.
I, a poor friendless woman, have no claim to prefer to your regard,
except in the story of my misfortunes, and which, in compassion to
myself, I will spare you. If, however, you are willing to befriend me
on trust,--that is, on the faith that I am one not undeserving of your
genero