beheld her adorned; or that she was laboring under some physical disability that robbed her dark cheek of the bloom that was its chiefest charm.  The change I observed went deeper than that; it was more as if a light had been extinguished in her countenance.  It was the same woman I had beheld standing like a glowing column of will and strength before the melancholy form of Mr. Blake, but with the will and strength gone, and with them all the glow.

“She no longer hopes,” thought I, and already felt repaid for my trouble.

“This is a very pretty article you have brought me,” said she with something of the unrestrained love of art which she undoubtedly possessed, showing itself through all her languor.  “Where did it come from, and what recommendations have you, to prove it is an honest sale you offer me?”

“None,” returned I, ignoring with a reassuring smile the first question, “except that I should not be afraid if all the police in New York knew I was here with this fine placque for sale.”

She gave a shrug of her proud shoulder that bespoke the French Countess and softly ran her finger round the edge of the placque.

“I don’t need anything more of this kind,” said she languidly; “besides,” and she set it down with a fretful air, “I am in no mood to buy this afternoon.”  Then shortly, “What do you ask for it?”

I named a fabulous price.

She started and cast me a keen glance.  “You had better take it to some one else; I have no money to throw away.”

With a hesitating hand I lifted the placque towards the basket.  “I would very much like to sell it to you,” said I.  “Perhaps—­”

Just then a lady’s fluttering voice rose from the room beyond inquiring for the Countess, and hurriedly taking the placque from my hand with an impulsive “O there’s Amy,” she passed into the adjoining apartment, leaving the door open behind her.

I saw a quick interchange of greetings between her and a fashionably dressed lady, then they withdrew to one side with the ornament I had brought, evidently consulting in regard to its merits.  Now was my time.  The book in which she had placed the letter she had been writing lay on the table right before me, not two inches from my hand.  I had only to throw back the cover and my curiosity would be satisfied.  Taking advantage of a moment when their backs were both turned, I pressed open the book with a careful hand, and with one eye on them and one on the sheet before me, managed to read these words:—­

    My dearest Cecilia.

I have tried in vain to match the sample you sent me at Stewart’s, Arnold’s and McCreery’s.  If you still insist upon making up the dress in the way you propose, I will see what Madame Dudevant can do for us, though I cannot but advise you to alter your plans and make the darker shade of velvet do.  I went to the Cary reception last night and met Lulu Chittenden.