In order to keep the threads of our narrative connected, it is necessary that we go back for a time, and again open the scene in Frankfort, on the 24th of March, several days after the party, at which Florence Woodburn met Fanny Middleton.  Seated at her work table, in one of the upper rooms of Mrs. Crane’s boarding house, is our old friend, Kate Miller.  Her dazzling beauty seems enhanced by the striking contrast between the clearness of her complexion and the sable of her robe.

On a low stool, at her feet, sits Fanny.  Her head is resting on Mrs. Miller’s lap, and she seems to be sleeping.  She has been excused from school this afternoon, on account of a sick, nervous headache, to which she has recently been frequently subject.  Finding the solitude of her own chamber rather irksome, she had sought Mrs. Miller’s room, where she was ever a welcome visitor.  To Kate she had imparted a knowledge of the letter which she supposed Dr. Lacey had written.

Mrs. Miller’s sympathy for her young friend was as deep and sincere as was her resentment against the supposed author of this letter.  As yet, she had kept Fanny’s secret inviolate, and not even her husband had ever suspected the cause of Fanny’s failing strength.  But, this afternoon, as she looked on the fair girl’s sad, white face, which seemed to grow whiter and thinner each day, she felt her heart swell with indignation toward one who had wrought this fearful change.  “Surely,” thought she, “if Dr. Lacey could know the almost fatal consequence of his faithlessness he would relent; and he must, he shall know it.  I will tell Mr. Miller and he I know will write immediately.”  Then came the thought that she had promised not to betray Fanny’s confidence; but she did not despair of gaining her consent, that Mr. Miller should also know the secret.

For a time Fanny slept on sweetly and quietly; then she moved uneasily in her slumber, and finally awoke.

“How is your head now?” asked Mrs. Miller, at the same time smoothing the disordered ringlets which lay in such profusion over her lap.

“Oh, much better,” said Fanny.  “I had a nice sleep, and so pleasant dreams, too.”

“Did you dream of him?” asked Mrs. Miller, in a low tone.

Quick as thought the crimson tide stained Fanny’s cheek and forehead, but she answered, somewhat bitterly, “Oh, no, no!  I never dream of him now, and I am trying hard to forget him.  I do not think I love him half as well now as I once thought I did.”

Poor little Fanny!  How deceived she was!  After a time Mrs. Miller said, “Fanny, Mr. Miller seems very anxious about your altered and languid appearance.  May I not tell him the truth?  He will sympathize with you as truly as I do; for he feels for you almost the affection of a brother.”

At first Fanny objected.  “I know,” said she, “that Mr. Miller would only think me a weak, silly girl.”  Mrs. Miller, however, finally gained permission to tell everything to her husband.  “I know, though,” persisted Fanny, “that he will laugh at me.  You say he likes me; I know he did once; but since the time when he visited my father’s, more than a year ago, he has not treated me with the same confidence he did before.  I never knew the reason, unless it was that foolish, romping mistake which I made one afternoon by riding into the schoolhouse!”