from her, and mingled its little unheard misery with the grand
rise and fall of the tumult of London life. While he was still at
the window, he saw her crossing the street on her way back to
him. She came into the room with her complexion heightened by
exercise; she kissed him, and said with her pretty smile: "Have
you been lonely without me?" Who would have supposed that the
torment of distrust, and the dread of desertion, were busy at
this woman's heart?

He placed a chair for her, and seating himself by her side asked
if she felt tired. Every attention that she could wish for from
the man whom she loved, offered with every appearance of
sincerity on the surface! She met him halfway, and answered as if
her mind was quite at ease.

"No, dear, I'm not tired--but I'm glad to get back."

"Did you find your old landlady still alive?"

"Yes. But oh, so altered, poor thing! The struggle for life must
have been a hard one, since I last saw her."

"She didn't recognize you, of course?"

"Oh! no. She looked at me and my dress in great surprise and said
her lodgings were hardly fit for a young lady like me. It was too
sad. I said I had known her lodgings well, many years ago--and,
with that to prepare her, I told her who I was. Ah, it was a
melancholy meeting for both of us. She burst out crying when I
kissed her; and I had to tell her that my mother was dead, and my