She did tell him all, and had reason to thank God for the courage that made it a possible, even an easy, thing for her to do.  Her truly noble benefactor and protector, receiving her communication as if he then heard it for the first time, assured her that in thus confiding in the freedom of his mind, and in his honor, she had set up a new and stronger claim to his interest and friendly care.  She had but enlarged his obligation to his until then unknown correspondent for having given his children, to whom their governess had already truly endeared herself, so admirable a teacher, so precious a friend.

["But why,” you will ask, “did not Madeline write to Miss Wimple?” Because that provident angel had, without explanation, exacted from her a promise that she would in no case write first.  In truth, Miss Wimple foresaw her own various suffering, and sought to spare Madeline some cruel pangs, and herself the hard trial of disingenuous correspondence.]

And Mr. Osgood would have started at once for Hendrik, where he was not personally known to any one, to procure tidings of Miss Wimple and allay the anxiety of Mrs. Morris, had Madeline not found, that very day, her name in the Herald’s list of letters waiting to be called for in the New York Post-Office.  That letter was, indeed, for Madeline, and its contents were as follows:—­

“To Miss MADELINE SPLURGE,—­Miss Wimple, of Hendrik, is very ill, and poor, and friendless.  It has been suggested to the writer of this that you can help her.  If you can, and will, there is no time to lose.  A FRIEND.”

The “friend” was Simon Blount.  Ever since the Athenaeum was closed, he had hung anxiously about the place, frequently dropping in upon the neighbors to ask—­quite by-the-byishly, and by chance, it seemed to them—­after the health of Miss Wimple; and sometimes he waylaid the little servant, as she passed to and fro between the bookstore and the doctor’s residence, and plied her with questions.  On such occasions he was sure to make the little maid the depository of certain silver secrets, which forthwith she revealed to Miss Wimple in the shape of whole basketfuls of comfortable stuff, “from the Doctor.”  Adelaide had given the hint for this letter.  Calling at the Athenaeum one day, about a fortnight after Madeline’s departure, her quick eye caught sight of a bit of paper lying on the counter, whereon was freshly written, “Madeline Splurge.”  Miss Wimple had been entering some trifling charge in the course of her small book-keeping, and, still dallying with the pen, a passing thought, less idle than anxious, had traced the name.  On that slight foundation Adelaide had built a happy guess, though Simon knew it not,—­and though he accepted her suggestion, it amazed him.

Let us lift the curtain now, on the last, an extraordinary, tableau.  In the Wimple nest a strange company are met at the bidding of Madeline Splurge, who couches a flashing lance for the life and the honor of her benefactress.