“You tell me that I did see a girl there, and that it was the one who had lived as sewing woman in my house; it may be so, but at the time I considered it a vision of my wife, and the remembrance of it, coming as it did after my repeated failures to encounter her in the street, worked a change in my plans.  For regard it as weakness or not, the recollection that the vision I had seen wore the garments of a working- woman rather than a lady, acted upon me like a warning not to search for her any longer among the resorts of the welldressed, but in the regions of poverty and toil.  I therefore took to wanderings such as I have no heart to describe.  Nor do I need to, if, as you have informed me, I have been followed.

“The result was almost madness.  Though deep in my heart I felt a steadfast trust in the purity of her intentions, the fear of what she might have been driven to by the awful poverty and despair I every day saw seething about me, was like hot steel in brain and heart.  Then her father and her brother!  To what might they not have forced her, innocent and loving soul though she was!  Drinking the dregs of a cup such as I had never considered it possible for me to taste, I got so far as to believe that her eyes would yet flash upon me from beneath some of the tattered shawls I saw sullying the forms of the young girls upon which I hourly stumbled.  Yes, and even made a move to see my cousin, if haply I could so win upon her compassion as to gain her consent to shelter the poor creature of my dreams in case the necessity came.  But my heart failed me at the sight of her cold face above the splendor she had bought with her charms, and I was saved a humiliation I might never have risen above.

“At last, one day I saw a girl—­no, it was not she, but her hair was similar to hers in hue, and the impulse to follow her was irresistible.  I did more than that, I spoke to her.  I asked her if she could tell me anything of one whose locks were golden red like hers—­But I need not tell you what I said nor what she replied with a gentle delicacy that was almost a shock to me as showing from what heights to what depths a woman can fall.  Enough that nothing passed between us beyond what I have intimated, and that in all she said she gave me no news of Luttra.

“Next day I started for the rambling old house in Vermont, if haply in the spot where I first saw her, I might come upon some clue to her present whereabouts.  But the old inn was deserted, and whatever hope I may have had in that direction, perished with the rest.

“Concerning the contents of that bureau-drawer above, I can say nothing.  If, as I scarcely dare to hope, they should prove to have been indeed brought here by the girl who has since disappeared so strangely, who knows but what in those folded garments a clue is given which will lead me at last to the knowledge for which I would now barter all I possess.  My wife—­But I can mention her name no more till the question that now assails us is set at rest.  Mrs. Daniels must—­”