“The voice of the gentleman was familiar to me; the lady’s I did not, at first, recognize,—­something had changed its quality.  Supposing themselves alone,—­for it was plain they had not heard me approach and enter the bridge,—­they were incautious; their words reached me distinctly.  I might have retraced my steps and waited till they had gone; but the moon was shining brightly, and the night was very still, —­in a pause of their conversation they might have heard or seen me; I chose to spare them that.  So I fell back into a corner, where the shadows were deepest, and remained quite quiet until they went away.  I have told you that I heard their words; but I did not understand them then;—­now, I do.”

Madeline bowed her head.  Miss Wimple seemed not to observe that, but continued in the same quiet, even tone:—­

“When they had gone, I found, lying in the moonlight near the bridge—­this.”

Miss Wimple held out the little pocket-book.  Madeline started, made a quick movement, as though to snatch the book, but checked herself with an effort, and said, with stern composure,—­

“Well?”

“Well,” said Miss Wimple, “there it is, and it is yours.  It contains a card, for the safety of which you were once concerned.  It has remained as safe, from that hour to this,—­not only from my curiosity, but that of all others, be they friends or foes of yours,—­as though you had kept it hidden in your bosom, and defended it with your teeth and nails; on my honor!”

In these last words, and only then, Miss Wimple showed that she could remember an insult, and avenge it—­in her own way.  She dropped the pocket-book into the lap of Madeline, who, without a word, placed it in her bosom.

“And now, my poor Madeline,” said Miss Wimple, “we will speak no more of these things.  I beg you to understand me clearly,”—­and Miss Wimple suddenly altered her tone,—­“we must not recur to this subject.  You will remain with me until we shall have decided what is best for us to do.  You are quite safe in this house; that you were ever here need not be known hereafter, unless your honor or your happiness should require that we divulge it.  I must go now and open the shop; and when I return to you, we will speak, if you please, of other things.”

“But Miss Wimple’s Hoop,—­will you never come to that?  Or is it your intention to ‘omit the part of Hamlet by particular request?’”

Slowly and fairly,—­we come to it now.

CHAPTER IV.

When the neat and modest little mistress of the Hendrik Athenaeum and Circulating Library descended to open the shop and take down the bars, all her sense of delicacy was shocked, and she was brought to shame; for her meek skirts, missing the generous support of the quilted silk petticoat, clung about her mortified extremities in thin and limp dejection.  It was plain to Miss Wimple that she looked poverty-stricken,—­an