! l: 1 i. f z «a ‘- -> ' V 'I - .' - . c I ! . .4- ’e TO A CHILD. BY IBIN E. REXFORD. I saw a sculptured grou A child who, wearied at s plag, Was listenin , with a smile, to ear A fairy’s wh 8 er in his ear. An artist han had wrought the clay Into a poem. All the da I‘ve wondered what the airies tell To young hearts wrapped in childhood’s spell. to-day; Sometimes I hear them at their play Laugh out in such a he py way, And talk in strange an unknown words As glad as any son of birds, That I am sure the r brlggt e Some fairy friend that’s d 05 see rom me. And sometimes, when they sit alone, Their eyes have grave and solemn grown, And I can fancy that they see Some glim se of life’s great mystery, And that t e understand and know The secrets t t perplex us so. Oh, little children! if ye knew! I think that angels talk with you, And tell you secrets strange and sweet, That our child-lips may not repeat. Pray 0d your souls ma always be 80 pure that they can t k with thee! Ethelind: Hate. BY MARY REED CROWELL. Tun June moonlight was almost bright as day, and, standing in the open French win- dow, her hands clutching the lace curtains with a grip as fierce as fate itself, Ethelind Heath could see Miller Joyce and Miss Remington, as they walked up and down the wide path in front of the house, arm in arm, and with a sat- isfied way that nearly drove her mad. She was a slight, graceful girl, this Ethelind Heath, with dark, Spanish eyes that, just now, were gleaming like kindling coals; whose brightness deepened and intensified with omin- ous swiftnm as she stood, like a statue, clutching the delicate lace curtains as if they had been a doom she had sworn to conquer, and staring at the two out in the sweet, soft moonlight. Not a gesture, not an occasional louder word, not a bend of Miller Joyce’s handsome head, not a. note of the girl’s low, melodious laugh, escaped her. She watched—her bosom rising and falling rapidly in time to the pas- sionate pulsing of her heart. She listened, the pallor of her face increasing, while two flame fires burst on either cheek; and once, when the girl raised her head, and looked up into his handsome face with an indefinable gesture that Ethelind’s woman-jealousy told her meant so much—then, a low, angry cry, almost hiss- ing in its sudden sharpness, came surging be- tween the set teeth, the quivering lips. “And for this I have come to Fernwaldl” It implied more than it expressed—that one sentence she uttered, involuntarily, as she turned away from the window, and walked with unsteady step out of the drawing-room— through the’music—rcom, and into the dimness and fragrance of the conservatory beyond, where, while Miller Joyce and Fay Remington walked to and fro for minutes that were bliss- fully short to them, were fearfully long to her—this, while Ethelind Heath, in a dark nook under a spreading lemon tree, crouched in a white, trembling, pulsing heap, as she re- viewed all the treachery of the man she loved, the man who had sworn he loved her, the man whose rich, sweet voice came occasionally to her ears, as he talked with Fay Remington. For this, then—this deacrtion of her stand- ard—this ardent enlistment under another banner—Miller Joyce had half-reluctantly consented to accompany her on a visit to Fem- wald. Now, it would be with complete reluc- tance he Would be obliged to leave Fernwald and Fernwald’s young mistren—even with Ethelind Heath, the passion-hearted girl, who, as he walked in the moonlight with Fay, was frantically twisting the opal and pearl engage- ment-ring on her hot, throbbing finger. She was thoroughly roused—this gipsy- faced girl, with slumbrous fire in her eyes when her life was calm and even—with a tempest of raging flame in them now. “ I want to know what accursed fate brought me here? I want to know what I have done, that the great happiness of my life is taken cut of my hand—and by her, by nan!" She did not utter the thoughts that were boiling in her brain—people never soliloquize unless they are idiotic—but by the hunted look in her eyes, the dumb wrath and anguish around her tense mouth, if you could have seen her, you could have almost guessed her thoughts. He had not been her first lover—other men had sued for her favor, and raved over her heartlessness, when the secret was that her heart was sealed, waiting for the master hand to send its leaping waters forth. And Miller Joyce had been the man. Ethelind Heath loved him, for once, forever, with a constancy, a fervor, a jealousy that made all of life to her from the moment he kissed her, his betrothed wife. And now—to-night—after only seven weeks of unalloyed content—this! As she sat there, a shade among shadows, Ethelind tried to assure herself of the impossi- bility of her lover’s falsity; then, when her jeal- ous heart indignantly, persistently refused the doubt, she knew that, of the two out yonder in the summer night—she hated one, to death! Not him—ah! not him, with his handsome face and his courtly air; not him, who had wooed her with words that made her heart throb now, to remember; and for a second, Ethelind wished she might hate him, rather than this soul-sickening yearning for him that all her pride could not control. But, that other! with the dark, violet eyes, into which Miller Joyce had looked. With the white brow, the tiny curls of yellow gold hair—with the bright smile, the winning way, the— Her figure quivered with rage as she men— tally enumerated F‘ay Remington’s charms; and then, she sprung from her low seat, like a ‘ tigress who scents the prey. “Like a fool I sit here and leave them to .their own way! Like a fool I have let them have their own way, that now—now—ah! my fiossy~haired beauty, if you knew a tithe of what is in store for you! if you even dreamed of what my hatred of you has devised, you would have left my lover alone!” Then, as Miller Joyce and Miss Remington entered the drawing-room by one door, Ethel- ind entered by another—calm as a June sky, unruffled as a lake at a windiest noontide, to meet Fay’s honest, fearless eyes. “If I have kept your liege too long, Ethel, scold me, and not him. He really was not to blame.” Her sweet, girlish voice came laughineg to Ethelind as she was crossing the floor. “ No? How kind of you to absolve Mr. Joyce! I fear I shall not be so lenient. Fay, I wish you would play that Operetta I men- tioned yesterday.” Then, while the girl’s fair fingers were fly- ing over the keys in perfect rushes of melody, Ethelind beckoned to Joyce, who lingered by the window. “ I fear you are establishing the reputation of a recreant knight. However, I am not afraid of you.” He leaned his handsome head near her—so near he might have stolen a kiss from her glowing pink cheek. “Thank you, my darling! You need not be afraid of my disloyalty. Miss Remington is a charming girl, but you—are my sweet- heart.” For an instant it seemed to Ethelind there was something inexpressibly sweet and tender and proud in his low words; then she was as positive there was a hidden sarcasm in them. “ Yes, I am, ” she said to herself, as they sat and listened to “ Fiorella”; and if the words had been spoken, their bitterness of tone would have thrilled one strangely. And yet, there was no perceptible trace of the hot, unreasoning fury raging in her breast in her cool, calm voice as she addressed Fay Remington an hour later, in Fay’s bedroom. “ You are really going down to the old Red Mills to-morrow, and alone, Fay?” Fay turned a laughing face toward Ethel- ind. “ To-morrow, and alone. Are you shocked that I dare so abuse the proprieties, or were you aboutto offer your company? To tell the honest truth, Ethic, I prefer to go alone, for I am determined to finish my sketch of the old bridge and wheel. If you go, I will talk all the time—so I don’t want you, dear. Mr. Joyce oifered to escort me, but I forbade him n Ethelind’s eyes flamed. “He did?” she said, quickly; then, with wonderftu assumed calmness, went on. “If you prefer to go alone, all right. Only be very careful when you cross that narrow planking they call a bridge. It makes me dizzy to think of it—the boards are so small and insecure, and the water boils so angrily along there.” She watched Fay closely, as the girl took down her beautiful hair. “ You are kind, Ethic, but never worry about me. I ,am clear- headed, and sure- footed.” And as they said good-night, there was murder in Ethelind Heath’s eyes. It was very quiet, away out in the lonely countryside, a mile from any house, with only the sweet noises of birds and bees, and the fall of the water over the old, half-ruined dam. Three hours before, Fay Remington had gone singing down the narrow path, over the rattling little bridge, and into the old gray mossy-walled mill, sketch-book in hand. Now, Ethelind Heath crept along the lonely path, with the thundering of the water drown- ing every step she took, every awkward effort she made at her devilish task. With dilated eyes, and rapid pulse, with crimson flame on her cheeks, and strong, yet trembling hands, she worked—desperately, with ten times her natural strength; she worked with insane fury in her heart, and that same awful look in her eyes. Board by board she tore up the flimsy planking of the bridge, and sent them floating down the whirling stream; the dim dusk com- ing on just as she had done, and turned to go home, hiding her bleeding hands within her thick gloves, and walking with slow, deliber- ate steps, and a face now deadly pale. “ I’ll teach her to steal my lover from me! When she comes suddenly around that angle at the corner of the mill, she’ll never notice the bridge is gone, and then—then—” Ethelind shivered—“ she’ll know what it means to cross my path.” She quickened her pace, and hurried home- ward, her face recovering some of its color, but looking so wofully wild that Miller Joyce stopped her in alarm as they met at the gate. “Ethic, darling, what is the matter? Are you faint? are you sick? Where have you been? Aunt Agnes has been so worried that you were out so late; and Fay hasn’t come, either.” A horrible coldness seized her. hadn’t come home! She assayed to smile, but it was quite a failure. “ I believe I am sick, Miller. I was walk- ing toward the village, and the sun seemed so hot, and my head hurt so. I will go to my room.” “Then you did not go to meet Fay? We thought perhaps you bad. You went in just the opposite direction, then.” “ Yes, just the opposite direction,” she said, faintly, her face growing white, her lips blue, am. “You had better go up—stairs, dear,” Miller said, tenderly; “aunt Agnes will attend to you, and Fay’ll be coming soon; she can take care of you nicely.” Ethelind laid her white, cold hand—stained a red that was only visible to her own wild, staring eyes—on his sleeve. “You are always talking of Fay, Miller J oyoe. Do you—~did you—I mean who do you love best—of us two?” Miller’s eyes looked searchineg in Ethe- lind’s; then, with a half-compassionate smile, he answered, quite gravely: “Have you been so jealous as that, my darling? I have been foolish, perhaps, in not telling you a secret I have discovered since I came to Fernwald—which I kept for Fay’s own sake, but which I think you should know, especiauy since you love me so well as to be jealous of my attentions to—my sister-in- law 1" He had expected to see surprise, but he was hardly prepared for the sudden, despairing horror that surged over her face. “Your sister-in-law l” she repeated, mechan- ically. “ Yes—brother Will’s wife—since early in the spring, when, for various reasons, there was a secret marriage. To-morrow is Fay’s birthday, when she will be legally her own mistress, and Will is coming to claim her, and there will be such a joyous time, mirth— Ethelind! for Heaven's take don’t look at me so!” “ Take me—up—stairs. I am—deathly sick!” Ah! she was truly deathly sick! What had she done—she, a miserable human being, to take a life in her hands? She crept up the stairs, and locked herself in her room, positively refusing to see a face. Then, she endured all the terrors and tortures that lost souls suffer; then, with remorse at her heart, with unavailing penitence, she grov- eled on the floor, wrung by passions that shook her as the storm outside, so suddenly arisen, shook the lilies. Below stairs she heard a sudden commotion, then, a heavy, slow tramp of men’s feet, then a solemn stillness. A giddy horror seized her; they were bringing it home—bright, beautiful Fay, with water dripping from her hair—with staring, stony eyes, and— A scream of fear and horror rose to her lips; then, with a dull, heavy sound, she fell No. Fay unconscious across the threshold, where, fas- cinated, she had stood to listen. A pair of despairing eyes, from which all joy seemed to have taken its everlasting flight ——Ethelind Heath’s eyes, slowly opened to con- sciousness again, nearly twenty-four heurs from the time when she had fallen across the threshold, fainting from terror and remorse. Now, in the simsetting, they wearily open- ed—to meet Fay Remington’s, tender, anxious, looking in her own. “ Ethic, darling, thank God! you have open- edthose dear eyes again!” A low, moaning wail from Ethelind’s lips, then a sharp, hysterical cry, then—as the blessed, blessed truth came fully to her—that Fay was alive—that God had been more merci- ful than she—the tearscame, cool, rushing tor- rents. ' “Fay! Fay! this is too much! thank God enough?" “I never thought you loved me so, dear. but Miller says when the men carried poor old Jenks in, when he had one of his terrible fits last night, that you surely must have feared it was me, for you screamed frightfully and they found you on the floor.” Ethelind gazed at the girl’s bright, happy face as if she never could drink in enough of the sight. “ But you—you, Fay; you didn’t come home, and—I—was so alarmed—” A solemn gravity crossed Fay’s counten- ance. “ It was God’s mercy, dear, that I went around by Allie Dean’s instead of coming straight home. The rain surprised me, as I sat sketching, and if I had not gone through the back door of the mill I would not have been here. The creek had arisen—we saw ,when we came home this morning—and the planks were all washed away. ” “ But-— Never mind; you’re safe now; and happy. For to-day your husband comes—— doesn’t be?” A glorious flush crept over Fay’s face. “Yes, to-day! Miller said he told you. We will all be so happy—won’t we?” Can I ever Happy—very quietly happy, perhaps, with a great, eternal thankfulness that she had been saved a terrible sin; but never again the Ethe- lind of other days; never merry, joyous again. And Miller loves the gentle, subdued girl better than ever before, and wonders what has changed her so; but he, or no one else, ever dreamed how often she goes alone to her cham— ber, and kneels and thanks God for His mercy, and implores his renewed forgiveness. Love in 09 Maze: THE DEBUTANTE’S ’DIBENCHANTMENT. BY MRS. E. F. ELLET, AUTHOR or “ ALIDA BARRETT, run sswmo- GIRL,” “nannmsn’s MARRIAGE,” mo. CHAPTER II. was panorama mm mm csrrrcs. ELonnz: was handed out of the carriage at the door of a strange hotel, and led up the stairs to the reception~room. Before she could turn to ask a question, she found herself alone. She wrapped her cloak more closely about her, and went to the door. The corrider was filled with people passing to and fro, all strange to her. She could see nothing of her escort. She returned to her seat, and waited, chafing with impatience, some twenty minutes. Then she rose, and passing to the bell, was about to pull it, when the door opened, and a florid- looking, elderly woman entered. “ I beg a thousand pardons, Miss, for keep- ing you waiting,” she began. “ Where is Mr. , the gentleman who brought me here?” demanded Elodie, sternly. “I do not know, Miss. The clerk sent for me, and Icameas soonas Icould. Iwas to show you to your room, Miss.” Elodie hesitated an instant, and then rose to follow her, dropping her vail. She was con- ducted up one flight of stairs, and then the housekeeper opened the door of a corner room, and lighted one of the gas burners. It was a square room, with lofty ceiling, and elegantly furnished. The carpet was a rich pile of velvet, the windows were vailed by draperies of crimson satin damask, corres- ponding with the covers of chairs and sofas. On a table inlaid with mother of pearl and ebony, stood a vase full of fresh flowers. A door opposite the entrance was thrown open, revealing the white covering of a French bed, and a marble-top toilet table. Without another question, the young girl crossed the room, and threw herself into one of the easy chairs. The housekeeper asked if she would have anything; but she only shook her head, and motioned her to retire. This the woman did, closing the door softly behind her. Elodie then rose, threw oi! her cloak, and drew a deep breath. She went and stood opposite a large square mirror at one end of the room. It reflected her entire figure, in her opera dress and the jewels that sparkled on her neck and arms. Her yellow curls hung over her flushed cheeks, and as she flung them back, she half smiled, wondering what Wynd- ham Blount had thought of her in her new character. “I know I did not sing my best to-night!” she murmured; “ but I looked nice, and he is no judge of music. I wish he had heard me sing my best!” When she had waited half an hour longer, there was a knock at the door, and a woman came in, closely muffled. It was Madame Leona; and she seized Elodie’s hand. “ Oh, my child, you had a narrow escape!” she exclaimed. “ But you are safe now, thanks to Mr. Rashleigh.” “What did he mean, by bringing me to this strange place?” asked the girl, displeased. “What could be done? There was no time to think. Your guardian, as he calls himself, was coming to claim you—to take you away— no doubt. If we had gone home, he could have followed us. Your uncle did all for the best.” “ And how long are we to stay here?” “ I do not know. To—night, certainly.” “I have not a dress with me—not even night clothes.” “ Our things will be sent; never fear; pray calm yourself. The monsieur has ordered supper for us." “ I do not want any.” “ You must have refreshment; and I am fainting. Be sure all will be right." Another tap at the door; and two servants entered, one of them bearing a silver tray. The snowy cloth was soon laid, and a tempting supper set out. The choicest wine was not wanting. In spite of her vexation, Elodie was not proof against the entreaties of her companion that she would partake of the dainties. When ! they had eaten—Leona not at all sparingly— the viands were removed, the wine and glasses being left. . “ Now, it is late, my child, and you must go to bed. You will find our luggage sent in the morning; and a night sacque in my sachel.” “ Sleep—in this strange place?” began the young lady. “ My dear, it, is a first class hotel—only far down in the city. You need not be afraid. My room opens into yours—see.” And, leading the way into the bed chamber, she showed another door, which she opened. The bath-room was between the two, and the other doors were securely fastened. Leona produced a fresh cambric night dress, with brush and comb, and a neat embroidered cap, and laid them out for her young friend‘s use, while her own were thrown upon her bed. The girl was ready to sink with fatigue and the exhaustion of her evening’s excitement. She was not sorry to lay aside her robes and gems, and to seek the needed slumbers. These lasted till very late in the morning. Leona had been up for hours; had gone down stairs from her own room, to have a con- fidential interview with Rashleigh, and had superintended the storing away of their tnmks, which had been sent for from their late lodg— ings. One, the smallest, was brought up for Elodie’s present use; the others were bestowed in the baggage-room. When the girl wakened from her profound repose, and started up, bewildered, unable to imagine where she was, a soft step entered the room, and a soft voice spoke encouragingly to her. Leona was ready to assist her, and had her morning dress all ready, for the key of the trunk was in her possession. “ Just brush your hair, dear child,” she said, “ and refresh yourself by a bath, and then put on this dressing gown. There is no one here. Then I will ring for breakfast. The breakfast was served in the parlor. Both enjoyed the chocolate, broiled chicken, omelet, and snowy rolls, with the appetites of health. When the things were removed, Elodie began to question her companion. “ We cannot tell what it will be best to do,” said Madame Leona, “till Mr. Rashleigh comes.” _ “Why not? He is not my master,” replied the querulous young lady. “No, my dear, of course not; but we have to act by our agent under the circumstances. He was to see the manager this morning.” “Then he ought to report himself. It is past one o’clock.” “ He will be here soon, I doubt not. ” “ And is it to depend on him, what we do?” “On the report he brings, in part at least.” “Ido not like it at all,” muttered Elodie. “Have you seen the morning papers?” “They are in my room. I will fetch them.” Leona brought in half a dozen of the most prominent city journals, and laid them on the table. The girl unfolded them one after another, devouring the different articles re- cording her triumph of the preceding evening. “The Signor-ins. Elena” was praised in un- measured terms, as far as youth and beauty went; but two or three of the larger papers, in articles written by professed critics, spoke less kindly of her musical performance. Her voice, though fresh and full of melody, was pronounced deficient in force and compass; her rendering of many passages received un- favorable criticism. Her acting was praised but faintly; it was evident she had not under- stood the depth of the part she had assumed; but youth was in her favor; a few years of study might do much for her, etc., etc. Elodie’s chagrin and disappointment was unbounded. She crushed the papers in her hand, flung them on the floor with indignation, and asked what enemy had dared thus to attack her. “Nay, my dear,” replied her companion, “it is only what every debutante must ex- pect. In the provinces you were a young queen; but here, the metropolitan critics are always severe. Success has to be won by strife with them, in which many wounds are received.” “ These articles are all false !” cried the girl, starting up, her cheeks aflame, her eyes full of tears. “ Everybody was pleased. You know how much I was applauded, and how many bouquets were thrown to me?” “I know it, my pet; but these men never judge by marks of popular approval.” “What then? are not those signs of suc- cess?” “ The critics pretend to have a higher stan— dard.” “Then I don’t care about pleasing them at all. The audience applauded me, and that is enough.” “Yes; but you would find, and very soon too, that people are blindly led by these news- paper critics. If you defy their judgment, they are sure to put you down. The very listeners who applauded you, and threw flow- ers at your feet, will fancy they have been too kind, and will pin their faith to such articles as these, and hold back in future.” “ Fools!” exclaimed the irate debutante. “Yes, they are fools, like more than half the world. There is one sure way of securing popularity, by bringing round the critics.” “ What is that?” “By bribing them. If your agent could have complimented each critic with a present of five hundred dollars, their verdict would have been unanimously in your favor.” “They would sell their judgment?” “They make a practice of laying obstacles in the way of youthful artists, in order to ex— tort bribes. But you could not have satisfied their cupidity. There was not money enough I” “ I would not have given one cent for praise that could be purchased!” cried the young aspirant after fame. “If these men require money as the price of their compliments, I want none of their good words.” Leona shrugged her shoulders. “I do not see any mention at all of you, madame?” “ Oh, no! I am too insignificant. They never take the trouble to abuse an ordinary singer. You may console yourself with that, child! If you had not shown that you have merit, you would not have been visited by their censure.” “ It is not possible, then, to establish a repu- tation as an artist, if one has no money to pay these critics for their approbation?” asked Elodie. “ It is difl‘lcult. It would take years—un- less—” °“ Unless what?” “Unless you had a EurOpean fame. you would have an advantage over them, and the public might dare to decide for them- selves.” “ But you know I cannot have that.” “I do not know why Mr. Rashleigh should not take you to Europe. You might succeed in Vienna, or even Paris. It would be the best thing to do just now. ” A servant came to the door, and announced Mr. Rashleigh. As he came in, both the ladies noticed that Then , he wore an expression of disappointment and perplexity. CHAPTER III. an ENGAGEMENTS AND PROSPECTS. THE agent brought unfavorable news. The manager, who had seen Wyndham Blount, declined giving Elodie a permanent en~ gagement. He was influenced, too, by the un- favorable tone of the New York press. Her performance, though most highly creditable to one so young, had been inferior to that of the tried vocalists who were used to the highest range of art, and even the applause her bril- liant beauty had commanded, was an offense to them as lowering the musical standard. She was not in the good graces of the company; and the prime. «lonna had protested against her being again entrusted with so prominent a. part. The guardi::n of the young lady had avowed his intention of taking home his ward, who had grieved him unspeakany by her rushing into a professional career. Should she again appear, the manager said, there must be a controversy, and perhaps an appeal to the courts, in which the guardiuu’s authority would probably be sustained. Thus the door was shut upon the young artist in the metropolitan opera. Elodie wept passionate tears as she listened. She felt disgusted with the profession she had adopted. “ I would give it all up, and go home!” she exclaimed, bitterly, “if Wyndham had not been so harsh!” “ He has not acted like a friend!” put in Madame Le0na. “After all, he has no author- ity over you; nor can he compel your obedi- ence to him.” “ As her uncle—in whose house and under whose care she has lived from infancy, I have the superior claim,” asserted Rashleigh. “Nobody has any claim to my obedience,” cried Elodie. “I grew up by myself; only my aunt took care of me. You never did anything for me, Mr. Rashleigh! If I had to be subject to either of you, I would rather it should be Wyndham, because he was kind to me, and gave me a home when I had none, and pro- mised my aunt—” Here she broke down in a tempest of sobs. “The question now is,” said Leona, “what is to be done?” “We must leave New York,” began the gen- tleman. “I will go back to auntie Brill,” cried the girl through her weeping. “And marry Enrico? Marriage would set you free, dear,” suggested madame. “ Marry Enrico? Is this atime to jest at my expense? You are a wicked woman!” “Pardon me, Helene; I meant no offense. I was only thinking how smooth everything would be made, if you had a husband who was an artist.” A look from Rashleigh checked Leona. “ I have conferred,” said he, “ with a French ex—manager, who wants to make up a company to go South. I can easily procure engagements for Helene and yourself.” Leona’s face brightened, and Elodie ceased crying, and looked up. “ The troupe will’visit Richmond and other smaller cities, before proceeding to Charleston. A series of concerts will be given.” “ I like the opera better,” said the girl. “ All in good time. In the larger cities, scenes from different operas may be given, in costume, with success. We shall make more money at first by concerts And by next spring we may go to Europe.” Leona clasped her hands, in a rapture. “ But it will be necessary to leave this city immediately. I do not want it to get about that the ‘ Signorina Elena ’ has not been able to secure a permanent engagement at the grand opera. I would rather have it supposed that she is hurried away by new duties.” “ Exactly so. I think as you do,” rejoined madame. “When do you intend us to leave New York?” asked Elodie. “ Can you not be ready to-morrow morning? The manager of the traveling troupe is in haste; and I am apprehensive of detention, if we re- main.” Both understood that he feared Mr. Blount would trace them out, and put a stop to their proceedings. Leona signified her approving consent. She would see to the packing, and the maid would take charge of her young mistress. The maid was to be taken? “ Of course,” replied Rashleigh. Elodie did not object, and he left them, to complete his arrangements with the manager of the traveling troupe. Elodie went into her room, and in a few minutes came out in a walking-dress of dark- green cashmere, with a veil fastened in her hat, and dark gloves. “ Where are you going?” asked Leona, startled. “ To see auntie Brill. You do not think I would leave New York without seeing her?” “ But, dear child, you are not going out alone?” V “ Who is to go with me? You have as much as you can do before dark. I shall take a car- riage.” “ Let me order one. in the street.” She rung, and gave the order. The girl was proof against all attempts at discussion. “ Wait till after dinner, and Mr. Rashleigh will accompany you—” “ That he shall not. I will go now, madame. I am not a child.” Leona could not prevail; she gave up, and accompanied her young friend to the entrance of the hotel where the close carriage stood. It was a tearful though joyous meeting be- tween Mrs. Brill and her protege. Elodie told her everything, and besought her to close or let her house, and go with her on the Southern tour. But the matron could not do that. “ I have no true friend but you, auntie,” pleaded the girl, in tears. “ I am afraid of Mr. Rashleigh, and Madame Leona cares only for her own interest. Nobody loves me but you.” The good dame wiped her eyes, and hugged the girl; then smiled significantly. “ I know one who loves you dearly,” she said. “ And if you would marry him, you might both live with me, and nobody would molest you. ” The girl understood that she spoke of Enrico, the young Italian. She made a gesture of dis- You must not be seen “Never speak so, auntie, if you would not make me hate you! I hate Leona for the same cause.” ' The dame held out her spread hands in de- precation. “ I will not!” she protested. “ In- deed, he is not half good enough for my little girl. Only I thought you might work together in the profession. If it were not for the mu— sic, I know who would suit you much better.” “ Who 9" “ A certain young gentleman, who came . - J A \ m, 9' or i — I