To Adelaide’s hand Simon Blount came timely and well-trained.  At once she set him on Withers, as one would hie on a good dog at a thief; and it was not long before she had the pleasure of seeing the chase brought to the ground.

Withers had heard of a graceful neck, and white, dimpled shoulders, at the Athenaeum; so accomplished a connoisseur as he must not let them pass unappreciated.  So he hastened to discharge his duty to aesthetic society by honoring them with his admiration and exalting patronage.  On any transparent pretext,—­the more transparent the better, he thought, for the proprietress of the white shoulders and the bewitching shape, who “no doubt understood,”—­he dropped in often at the little bookstore, to begin with a “how-do?” and conclude with an “au revoir,”—­the ineffable puppy! upon whose vicious vanity the cold, still, statuesque scorn of Miss Wimple was grandly lost.  At last, at the Splurge house one evening, in the presence of Adelaide and Simon, he was betrayed by his egotism into boasting, by insinuation, of certain successes at the Circulating Library most damaging to Miss Wimple’s reputation for understanding and good taste; he was “in her books,” he said.

An accordant glance passed between Adelaide and Simon.  When Withers retired, Simon followed him, and under Adelaide’s window, and under her eyes, he boxed the ears of Philip, the Debonair.  After that, Mr. Withers was discreeter.

But Miss Wimple’s trial was not yet at its worst.  The low-necked dress had been as unseasonable as the substitution of the hooped skirt for the quilted petticoat was imprudent.  Before Madeline had been gone a week, she contracted, as was to be feared, a heavy cold, which within a month assumed a chronic bronchial form, attended with alarming symptoms.  The extreme dejection of spirits, consequent upon her persecuted loneliness, had predisposed her to disease in the first place, and aggravated its character when it came.

At last she fell dangerously ill, and with the closing of the shop—­for she could hire no one to attend in it—­came poverty in its most dreadful form.  But for the charity of her kind physician, who sent a servant-girl, a mere child, to nurse her, and daily kept her supplied with proper nourishment from his own house, she would, so it seemed to her, have died of neglect and starvation.  Yet better, she thought, to depart even so, than linger on, when such lingering taxed the patience and the faith beyond the loftiest examples of religion.  Miss Wimple was too stout-hearted to cry for death, though she felt, that, having lived with heroism, she could at least die with presence of mind.  She waited, with a composure that had a strange quality of pride.

In her New York home, Mrs. Morris, the governess, was as happy as she dared to feel.  In Mr. Osgood’s family she had found all things as Miss Wimple had promised.  Treated with studious deference and consideration, not unmixed with affection, she enjoyed for her secret thoughts the most privileged privacy.  Her brave gratitude was superior to the distress a weaker woman might have suffered from the necessity of making Mr. Osgood unreservedly acquainted with her story, in order to enlist his aid to procure tidings of Miss Wimple, whose safety, health, and happiness were now far dearer to her than her own.