give the clue to the Evelyns and everybody. But I had better risk anything rather than his seeing it."

The miserable needlessness of the whole thing, the pitiful weighing of sorrow against sorrow, and shame against shame, overcame her for a little ; and then dashing away the tears she had no time for and locking up the strong box of her heart, she took her pencil again.

"Let me see you at the old place. I have come here on urgent business for you. Do not deny me, for H——'s sake!"

With a trifle of alteration she thought this would do; and went on to make a number of fair copies of it for so many papers. This was done and all traces of it out of the way before Mrs. Pritchard came in and the breakfast; and after bracing herself with coffee, though the good housekeeper was still sadly dissatisfied with her indifference to some more substantial brace in the shape of chickens and ham, Fleda prepared herself inwardly and outwardly to brave the wind and the newspaper offices, and set forth. It was a bright, keen day; she was sorry; she would it had been cloudy. It seemed as if she could not hope to escape some eyes in such an atmosphere. She went to the library first, and there requested the librarian, whom she knew, to bring her from the reading-room the files of morning and evening papers. They were many more than she had supposed; she had not near advertisements enough. Paper and ink were at hand, however, and making carefully her list of the various offices, morning and evening separate, she wrote out a copy of the notice for each of them.

The morning was well on by the time she could leave the library. It was yet far from the fashionable hour, however, and sedulously shunning the recognition of anybody, in hopes that it would be one step towards her escaping theirs, she made her way down the bright thoroughfare as far as the City Hall, and then crossed over the Park and plunged into a region where it was very little likely she would see a face that she knew. She saw nothing else either that she knew; in spite of having studied the map of the city in the library she was forced several times to ask her way, as she visited office after office, of the evening papers first, till she had placed her notice with each one of them. Her courage almost failed her, her heart did quite, after two or three. It was a trial from which her whole nature shrank, to go among the people, to face the eyes, to exchange talk with the lips that were at home in those purlieus; look at them she did not. Making her slow way through the choked narrow streets, where the mere confusion of business was bewildering,-very to anyone come from Queechy; among crowds of what mixed and doubtful character, hurrying along and brushing with little ceremony past her; edging by loitering groups that filled the whole side-walk, or perhaps edging through them, groups whose general type of character was sufficient plain and unmixed; entering into parley

with clerk after clerk who looked at such a visitor as an anomaly,-poor Fleda almost thought so too, and shrank within herself; venturing hardly her eyes beyond her thick veil, and shutting her ears resolutely, as far as possible to all the dissonant rough voices that helped to assure her that she was where she ought not to be. Sometimes she felt that it was impossible to go on and finish her task; but a thought or two nerved her again to plunge into another untried quarter, or make good her entrance to some new office through a host of loungers and waiting news-boys collected round the door. Sometimes, in utter discouragement, she went on and walked to a distance and came back, in the hope of a better opportunity. It was a long business; and she often had to wait. The end of her list was reached at last, and the paper was thrown away; but she did not draw free breath till she had got to the west side of Broadway again, and turned her back upon them all.

It was late then, and the street was thinned of a part of its gay throng. Completely worn, in body as well as mind, with slow, faltering steps, Fleda moved on among those still left; looking upon them with a curious eye as if they and she belonged to different classes of beings; so very far her sobered and saddened spirit seemed to herself from their stir of business and gaiety; if they had been a train of lady-flies or black ants Fleda would hardly have felt that she had less in common with them. It was a weary long way up to Bleecker-street, as she was forced to travel it. The relief was unspeakable to find herself within her uncle's door, with the sense that her dreaded duty was done, and well and thoroughly. Now her part was to be still and wait. But with the relief came also a reaction from the strain of the morning. Before her weary feet had well mounted the stairs, her heart gave up its control; and she locked herself in her room to yield to a helpless outpouring of tears which she was utterly unable to restrain, though conscious that long time could not pass before she would be called to dinner. Dinner had to wait.

"Miss Fleda," said the housekeeper, in a vexed tone, when the meal was half over, "I didn't know you ever did anything wrong."

"You were sadly mistaken, Mrs. Pritchard," said Fleda, half lightly, half sadly.

"You're looking not a bit better than last night, and if anything rather worse," Mrs. Pritchard went on. "It isn't right, Miss Fleda. You oughtn't to ha' set the first step out of doors, I know you oughtn't, this blessed day; and you've been on your feet these seven hours, and you shew it! You're just ready to drop.."-"I will rest to-morrow," said Fleda, "or try to."

"You are fit for nothing but bed," said the housekeeper, "and you've been using yourself, Miss Fleda, as if you had the strength of an elephant. Now do you think you've been doing right ?"

Fleda would have made some cheerful answer, but she was not equal to

it; she had lost all command of herself, and she dropped knife and fork to burst into a flood of exceeding tears. Mrs. Pritchard equally astonished and mystified, hurried questions, apologies, and consolations one upon another; and made up her mind that there was something mysterious on foot about which she had better ask no questions. Neither did she, from that time. She sealed up her mouth, and contented herself with taking the best care of her guest that she possibly could. Needed enough, but all of little avail.

The reaction did not cease with that day. The next, Sunday, was spent on the sofa, in a state of utter prostration. With the necessity for exertion the power had died. Fleda could only lie upon the cushions and sleep helplessly, while Mrs. Pritchard sat by, anxiously watching her; curiosity really swallowed up in kind feeling. Monday was little better, but towards the after part of the day the stimulant of anxiety began to work again, and Fleda sat up to watch for a word from her uncle. But none came, and Tuesday morning distressed Mrs. Pritchard with its want of amendment. It was not to be hoped for, Fleda knew, while this fearful watching lasted. Her uncle might not have seen the advertisement, he might not have got her letter, he might be even then setting sail to quit home for ever. And she could do nothing but wait. Her nerves were alive to every stir; every touch of the bell made her tremble; it was impossible to read, to lie down, to be quiet or still anywhere. She had set the glass of expectancy for one thing in the distance; and all things else were a blur or a blank.

They had sat down to dinner that Tuesday, when a ring at the door which had made her heart jump was followed-yes, it was-by the entrance of the maid-servant holding a folded bit of paper in her hand. Fleda did not wait to ask whose it was; she seized it and saw; and sprang away upstairs. It was a sealed scrap of paper, that had been the back of a letter, containing two lines without signature. "I will meet you at Dinah's, if you come there

alone about sundown."

Enough! Dinah was an old black woman who once had been a very attached servant in Mr. Rossitur's family, and having married and become a widow years ago, had set up for herself in the trade of a washerwoman, occupying an obscure little tenement out towards Chelsea. Fleda had rather a shadowy idea of the locality, though remembering very well sundry journeys of kindness she and Hugh had made to it in days gone by. But she recollected it was in Sloman-street and she knew she could find it ; and dropping upon her knees poured out thanks too deep to be uttered and too strong to be even thought without a convulsion of tears. Her dinner after that was but a mental thanksgiving; she was hardly conscious of anything beside; and a thankful rejoicing for all her weary labours. Their weariness was sweet to her now. Let her but see him; the rest was sure.

CHAPTER XLII.

How well appaid she was her bird to find.-Sidney.

LEDA counted the minutes till it wanted an hour of sundown; and then avoiding Mrs. Pritchard made her escape out of the house. A long walk was before her and the latter part of it through a region which she wished to pass while the light was good. And she was utterly unable to travel at any but a very gentle rate. So she gave herself plenty of time. It was a very bright afternoon and all the world was astir. Fleda shielded herself with a thick veil and went up one of the narrow streets, not daring to venture into Broadway; and passing Waverly-place, which was almost as bright, turned down Eighth-street. A few blocks now and she would be out of all danger of meeting any one that knew her. She drew her veil close and hurried on. But the proverb saith "a miss is as good as a mile,” and with reason; for if fate wills the chances make nothing. As Fleda set her foot down to cross Fifth-avenue she saw Mr. Carleton on the other side coming up from Waverly-place. She went as slowly as she dared, hoping

that he would pass without looking her way, or be unable to recognise her through her thick wrapper. In vain, she soon saw that she was known; he was waiting for her, and she must put up her veil and speak to him.

66

'Why I thought you had left New York," said he; "I was told so."

I had left it—I have left it, sir," said Fleda; "I have only come back for a day or two——”

"Have you been ill?" he said with a sudden change of tone, the light in his eye and smile giving place to a very marked gravity.

Fleda would have answered with a half smile, but such a sickness of heart came over her that speech failed and she was very near bursting into tears. Mr. Carleton looked at her earnestly a moment, and then put the hand which Fleda had forgotten he still held upon his arm and began to walk forward gently with her. Something in the grave tenderness with which this was done reminded Fleda irresistibly of the times when she had been a child under his care; and somehow her thoughts went off on a tangent back to the further days of her mother and father and grandfather, the other friends from whom she had had the same gentle protection, which now there was no one in the world to give her. And their images did never seem more winning fair than just then,-when their place was left most especially empty. Her uncle she had never looked up to in the same way, and whatever stay he had been was cut down. Her aunt leaned upon her; and Hugh had always been more of a younger than an elder brother. The quick contrast of those old happy childish days was too strong; the glance back at what she had had made her feel the want. Fleda blamed herself, reasoned and fought with herself; but she was weak in mind and body,

her nerves were unsteady yet, her spirits unprepared for any encounter or reminder of pleasure; and though vexed and ashamed she could not hold her head up, and she could not prevent tear after tear from falling as they went along; she could only hope that nobody saw them.

Nobody spoke of them. But then nobody said anything; and the silence at last frightened her into rousing herself. She checked her tears and raised her head; she ventured no more; she dared not turn her face towards her companion. He looked at her once or twice, as if in doubt whether to speak or not. "Are you not going beyond your strength?" he said at

length gently.

Fleda said no, although in a tone that half confessed his suspicion. He was silent again, however, and she cast about in vain for something to speak of; it seemed to her that all subjects of conversation in general had been packed up for exportation, neither eye nor memory could light upon a single one Block after block was passed, the pace at which he walked, and the manner of his care for her, alone shewing that he knew what a very light hand was resting upon his arm.

"How pretty the curl of blue smoke is from that chimney,” he said.

It was said with a tone so carelessly easy that Fleda's heart jumped for one instant in the persuasion that he had seen and noticed nothing peculiar about her.

"I know it," she said eagerly, "I have often thought of it, especially here in the city."

"Why is it? what is it?"

"Isn't it a contrast? or at least I

Fleda's eye gave one of its exploratory looks at his, such as he remembered from years ago, before she spoke. think that helps the effect here."

"What do you make the contrast?" he said quietly.-"Isn't it,” said Fleda with another glance, "the contrast of something pure and free and upward-tending, with what is below it. I did not mean the mere painter's contrast. In the country smoke is more picturesque, but in the city I think it has more character."

"To how many people do you suppose it ever occurred that smoke had a character?" said he smiling.-"You are laughing at me, Mr. Carleton? Perhaps I deserve it."

it.

"You do not think that," said he with a look that forbade her to think "But I see you are of Lavater's mind, that everything has a physiog nomy ? ”—“ I think he was perfectly right," said Fleda. "Don't you, Mr. Carleton?"

"To some people, yes! But the expression is so subtle that only very nice sensibilities, with fine training, can hope to catch it; therefore, to the mass of the world, Lavater would talk nonsense."

"That is a gentle hint to me. But if I talk nonsense I wish you would