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“I have been very ill, lately,” Alfred Graham replied, in a mournful tone; former thoughts and feelings rushing back upon him in consequence of this unexpected interview, and quite subduing him.

“I am really sorry to hear it,” the young man said, sympathizingly. “What has been the matter?”

“A slow fever. This is the first time I have been out for weeks.”

“A ride, then, will be of use to you. Get up, and let me drive you out into the country. The pure air will benefit you, I am sure.”

For a moment or two, Alfred stood irresolute. He could not believe that he had heard aright.

“Come,” urged Williams. “We have often ridden before, and let us have one more ride, if we should never go out again together. I wish to have some talk with you.”

Thus urged, Alfred, with the assistance of Charles Williams, got up into the light wagon, in which the latter was riding, and in a moment after was dashing off with him behind a spirited horse.

It was on the morning of a day, nearly a week previous to this time, that Mary Williams, or rather Mrs. Harwood,–for Anna and Mary Graham’s old friend had become a married woman–entered the store of Mrs.–on Chestnut-street, for the purchase of some goods.

While one of the girls in attendance was waiting upon her, she observed a young woman, neatly, but poorly clad, whom she had often seen there before, come in, and go back to the far end of the store. In a little while, Mrs.–joined her, and received from her a small package, handing her some money in return, when the young woman retired, and walked quickly away. This very operation Mrs. Harwood had several times seen repeated before, and each time she had felt much interested in the timid and retiring stranger, a glance at whose face she had never been able to gain.

“Who is that young woman?” she asked of the individual in attendance.

“She’s a poor girl, that Mrs.–buys fine work from, out of mere charity, she says.”

“Do you know her name?”

“I have heard it, ma’am, but forget it.”

“Have you any very fine French worked capes, Mrs.–,” asked Mrs. Harwood, as the individual she addressed came up to that part of the counter where she was standing, still holding in her hand the small package which had been received from the young woman. This Mrs. Harwood noticed.

“O, yes, ma’am, some of the most beautiful in the city.”

“Let me see them, if you please.”

A box was brought, and its contents, consisting of a number of very rich patterns of the article asked for, displayed.

“What is the price of this?” asked Mrs. Harwood, lifting one, the pattern of which pleased her fancy.

“That is a little damaged,” Mrs.–replied. “But here is one of the same pattern,” unrolling the small parcel she had still continued to hold in her hand, “which has just been returned by a lady, to whom I sent it for examination, this morning.”

“It is the same pattern, but much more beautifully wrought,” Mrs. Harwood said, as she examined it carefully. “These are all French, you say?”

“Of course, ma’am. None but French goods come of such exquisite fineness.”

“What do you ask for this?”

“It is worth fifteen dollars, ma’am. The pattern is a rich one, and the work unusually fine.”

“Fifteen dollars! That is a pretty high price, is it not, Mrs.–?”

“O, no, indeed, Mrs. Harwood! It cost me very nearly fourteen dollars–and a dollar is a small profit to make on such articles.”

After hesitating for a moment or two, Mrs. Harwood said–

“Well, I suppose I must give you that for it, as it pleases me.”‘

And she took out her purse, and paid the price that Mrs.–had asked. She still stood musing by the side of the counter, when the young woman who had awakened her interest a short time before, re-entered, and came up to Mrs.–, who was near her.

“I have a favour to ask, Mrs.–,” she overheard her say, in a half tremulous, and evidently reluctant tone.