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“How very fast you are sleeping, my baby,” she said, “and yet,” she added, shivering herself, “how very cold you are!” And wrapping around it a velvet mantle that had fallen over the screen, she leaned her head against the wall, and partly stupefied by the change from the chilling street to the warm apartment, and partly from exhaustion, she fell asleep. What a contrast was she, in her silent, lonely desolation, with fever in her veins, and enveloped in cold, drenched, dripping garments, to the gay young creatures above,—thoughtless of any evil in life more serious than not having a partner for the next waltz! She, a homeless, friendless wanderer; they, passing from room to room amidst the rustling of satins, and soft pressure of velvets, and floating of gossamer draperies, with the luxury of delicious music, and an atmosphere sweet with the breath of the costliest exotics, and crowding to tables where Epicurus might have banqueted.

And such contrasts, and more frightful, are there nightly in our city, separated, perhaps, by a wall, a street, or a square; and knowing this, we sleep quietly in our beds, and spend our days in securing more comforts for ourselves, and perhaps complaining of our lot!

More than an hour had passed away, when Fanny was awaked to imperfect consciousness by the murmuring of two female voices outside the screen. Two ladies stood there in their cloaks, waiting.

“How in the world,” asked one, “did you contrive to make her waltz with him?”

“By getting her into a dilemma. She could not refuse without rudeness to her hostess.”

“And so you made her ride with him yesterday? And so you hope to decoy her into an engagement with him?”

“No, no. I merely mean to decoy her—if you choose that word—into an intimacy, and then I will leave them to make out the rest between them. He is really irresistible! Stamford Smith’s wife was over head and ears in love with him; and you know poor Ellen Livermore made no secret of her attachment to him.”

“Why did she not mar
ry him?”

“Lord knows,” replied the lady, shrugging her shoulders.”She did not play her cards well; and I believe, the truth is, he has been a sad fellow.”

“Do you believe there was any truth in that girl’s story yesterday?”

“Very likely; pretty girls in her station are apt to go astray, you know. But here is Augusta. Come in, Mr. Sydney, there is no one here but us. Are you going so early?”

“Yes. After I shall have seen you to your carriage, I have no desire to stay.” There was a slight movement behind the screen, but apparently not noticed by the parties outside.”Oh, Miss Emly, allow me,” he said, dropping on his knee before Augusta, who, the dressing-maid not being at her post, was attempting to button her overshoe,—”allow me?”

“No, thank you; I always do these things for myself.”

“But I insist.”

“And I protest!” And Augusta Emly sprang behind the screen.

Sydney, with a sort of playful gallantry, followed her. Between them both the screen fell, and they all stood silent and aghast, as if the earth had opened before them. There still sat Fanny, beautiful as the most beautiful of Murillo’s peasant-mothers. The fever had left her cheek—it was as colorless as marble; her lips were red, her eyes beaming with a supernatural light, and her dark hair hung in matted masses of ringlets to her waist. She cast one bewildered glance around her, and then fixing her eyes on Sydney, she sprang to him and laid her hand on his arm, exclaiming, “Stafford! Stafford!” in a voice that vibrated on the ears of all those who heard her, long after it was silent for ever!