night, she merely bowed over it, and withdrew with her mother.

"Miss Wilmerton," said Mr. Poinsett approaching me, "do you consider Mildred much benefited by her journey?"

"No," I said; "she is evidently no better." "Has the physician given her ailment a name?" he asked.

"I think not," I replied.

"Ought not something to be done, and immediately?" he interrogated.

"Do you think her in danger, Mr. Poinsett? that she is seriously ill ?" I inquired. “I have long had fears for her."

Then, Miss Wilmerton, she should have advice at once." His manner was alarmed and eager.

"Mr. Poinsett," I exclaimed suddenly and passionately, "what has Mildred in life worth living for? The work her willing hands seek to do is denied her by reason of her father's wealth. I ask you, if life is precious or pleasant to her? What need has she of drugs and cordials to arrest disease, and restore her failing strength? For my part, when the curls are

swept back from her calm, dead face, and her limbs are straightened for burial, I shall have no tears to shed."

He was moved, much moved.

"Ever since her discovery of the disgrace attached to her father's name," I went on, "and since Walworth's departure, she has been growing paler and thinner daily. She has needed the tenderest care and sympathy. Were the power mine, I would fold pitying arms about her and lift her out of the shadow surrounding her, and remove the weight that is pressing the vitality from her heart. But this may not be; such power is not mine."

A question, almost visible, trembled on his lips, but he turned from me with a sudden gesture of indecision, and left the house hastily and without a word.

"Go," I said, in a passionate, wild way, as I heard the entrance door close upon him, "ponder these things in your heart, though I much doubt whether they will move your stern, firm nature, poet though you are! Beautiful and loving as Mildred is, she may expect nothing from you but a stone or a ser

+

pent, though her outstretched hand demanded
bread."

When I retired to my room, I did not feel
inclined to sleep, and having shaded my lamp,
I seated myself at my window beneath the
light of the calm cold stars that glittered in the
firmament. Suddenly near midnight some-
thing rustled in the hall; I heard a suppressed
cough; then a door below opened and closed
softly, and presently I observed a figure move
up and down the one avenue between flower-
beds in the garden, which, like most of those
in a city, could boast of little space. Regularly
up
and down paced the scarf-enveloped figure,
who, I became certain after a little, was Mil-
dred. I watched her for some time, until, fear-
ing she would become fatigued and chilled, I
left my room, and opening the hall-door called
to her to come in.

"Let me stay, Bessie," she pleaded. "Do
not urge me to return to my room; I cannot
sleep; I have not slept a whole night through
for weeks."

I did not pause to reason with or persuade her, but descending the steps, I took her hand

+

with a determination that allowed no resistance, and led her to her apartment, where I sat with her the hours through, talking sometimes, and sometimes silent, until the morning sun shone brightly over the city, and life and sound awoke in its streets.

CHAPTER XX.

FERING.

"Hope! with all the strength thou usest

In embracing thy despair;

Love! the earthly love thou losest
Shall return to thee more fair:
Work! make clear the forest tangling
Of the wildest stranger land;
Trust! the blessed deathly angels

Whisper Sabbath hours at hand.'"

MRS. E. B. BROWNING.

ONOR O'CANAVAN is here, Miss Bessie, and wants to know if she is to come to you when she leaves Miss Mildred ?"

"Yes, Kitty," I replied, "tell Honor I shall be ready for her in a few minutes."

Honor O'Canavan was a woman employed by Mrs. Forrester to wash and "do up" her