“Yes,” replied Monroe, with equal excitement, “I know her well.  What of her?  Where is she?  Have you found her?”

“Found her?” said the other, with surprise.  “Is she not here?”

“No,—­she left this morning.”

“And left no word where she was going?”

“None.”

“Let me beg of you not to trifle with me.  Did she not hear my voice, my step, and attempt to excuse herself through you?”

“Sir!” exclaimed Walter.

“I beg pardon.  I have been in search of her for two days.  I could not believe she had eluded me just at the last.  I do not wish to doubt your word.”

“And who may you be, Sir, to take such an interest in the lady?”

“I can satisfy you fully.  My name is Greenleaf.”

“The painter?”

“Yes.  You must have heard her speak of me.”

“Never, to my recollection.”

“Have you known her long?”

“She is my cousin.  It is only recently that she came here, and her acquaintances of a year ago might naturally have been passed over.”

“You seem surprised at her leaving you so abruptly.  You will join me in making search for her?”

“I shall search for her, myself, as long as there is hope.”

“Let me confess,” said Greenleaf, “that I have the strongest reasons for my haste.  She is betrothed to me.”

“Since you have honored me with your confidence, I will return it, so far as to tell you what I heard from her this morning.  I think I can remember the precise words:—­’I have received a wound from the faithlessness of one lover, which never will heal.’  If you are the person, I hope the information will be as agreeable to you as her absence and ill-judging independence are to me.  I wish you good morning.”

“Then she has heard!” said Greenleaf, soliloquizing.  “I am justly punished.”  Then aloud.  “I shall not take offence at your severity of tone.  I have but one thought now.  Good morning!”

He left the house, like one in a dream.  Alice, homeless in the streets this bitter day,—­seeking for a home in poverty-stricken boarding-houses,—­asking for work from tailors or milliners,—­exposed to jeers, coarse compliments, and even to utter want!—­the thought was agony.  The sorrows of a whole life were concentrated in this one hour.  He walked on, frantically, peering under every bonnet as he passed, looking wistfully in at the shop-windows, expecting every moment to encounter her sad, reproachful face.

Walter had been somewhat ill for several days, and the accumulation of misfortunes now pressed upon him heavily.  He did not tell his mother of the strange interview, but sat down moodily by the grate, in the library.  He was utterly perplexed where in the city to search for Alice; and with his mental depression came a bodily infirmity and nervousness that made him incapable of effort.  An hour passed in gloomy reverie,—­drifting without aim upon a shoreless ocean, under a sullen sky,—­when he was roused by the entrance of Easelmann.