such combination of German luxuries. But Zuleime, who managed to exist upon coarse food, could not endure gross food, and she would turn away from such, scarcely able to conceal the sickness the very odour, so appetising to a Dutch stomach, excited in hers; still her refusal of the viands was couched in words so gentle and grateful as never to offend her landlady. Some of my readers may wonder why Zuleime did not do her washing, water-drawing, &c., with her own hands, and take the money paid for having those things done, and buy better food? Because, for one reason, she had not the requisite physical strength or skill; and besides, perhaps, she shrank from the exposure necessarily incurred in these labours. She had not, in these two years, forgotten the delicacy and refinement in which she had been nurtured. On the contrary, everything in her appearance and manners betrayed the gentlewoman. She had but one dress in the world-all the others had been cut up to make clothes for her little girl. Her sole gown was black bombazine, which she had worn daily for nearly two years; yet so good was its original quality, and so well had it been preserved, that it was now neither rusty nor threadbare. It was shaken out and hung up every night, and well brushed and sponged every week. This dress, with the little inside kerchief of linen, was always neat and ladylike. Zuleime's fine needlework gave out, as she knew it would, and she found herself without employment or funds. It was then that Bertha and Wilhelmina Erhmientraut, the daughters of her landlord, told her of a German clothier on Main-street, who had advertised for a number of needlewomen to make vests. Zuleime confessed her total ignorance of that branch of needlework; but the kind German girls promised that, if she would procure the work, they would give her some instructions how it should be done. Zuleime gratefully accepted their offer, and prepared to set out on her long walk by donning the little black bonnet and shawl, as neat and as well preserved as her dress had been. She could not farther tax the kindness of her landlord's family by leaving her child in their care; she had been obliged to put the little one to sleep and lock it up in her room, only leaving her key with her landlady, "in case anything should happen " while she was gone. It was a long, weary tramp to Main-street, where the clothier's store was situated. When she entered the show-shop and made her

business known, she was directed into a back-room, where a man behind a long table was engaged in cutting out garments; and many bundles of cut-out but unmade clothes, tied around with skeins of thread, lay piled up at one end. Zuleime walked up to this table. The foreman, as he appeared to be, laid down his shears and looked up, saying deferentially, "What did you wish to look at, madam? Mr. Schneider, attend this lady."

"You are in error. I do not wish to look at your wares, You advertised work to give out; can I have some?"

The tailor looked at her again. He saw, from her gentle manners and appearance, that she was a lady; guessed from her dress that she was a widow; and knew by her errand that she was self-dependent, unprotected. So there existed no earthly reason why a coarse-minded, craven-hearted man, who spent his whole days in smirking, cringing, deprecating, and deferring to others, should not refresh his soul by a little impertinence and insolence to so safe a subject as a poor lady.

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Did you ever make vests ?" he asked in a short, curt, insolent manner.

"but

i

"No," answered Zuleime, sew very neatly-unusually neatly, my patrons say; and as you cut and baste the work, very little instruction would enable me to make them very nicely."

"I shan't trust you! I have had quite enough in my time of giving out work to people who know nothing about the business."

It was not the words so much as the insulting manner of the man that shocked the gentle-hearted woman, and she turned and left the shop ready to sink, not so much under disappointment, though she knew not where to turn for work, or money, or food, but under the deeply-humiliating sense of the rudeness and vulgarity to which she was forced to expose herself in this bitter struggle through the world. She walked slowly, thoughtfully, sadly away from the shop, till the sudden thought of her child's awakening electrified her, and she hurried on until she reached home. She obtained her key from the landlady in the basement, and entered the passage. It was then that she heard a very sweet, gentle voice, apparently near her room-door, saying

Don't cry, baby! poor baby, don't cry! mother will come

by-and-by! Dear, pretty baby, don't cry! I'll bring you all my playthings and a little dog when I can get in."

And then, in the pause of the child's wails and broken talk, and baby plaints, she ran up stairs at once; and there, kneeling before her door, and talking through the keyhole, was a sweet little dark-haired girl of about five years old, and dressed in deep mourning. Her hat of the finest Leghorn straw, the richness of the black ribbon that bound it; the fineness of the black bombazine frock and the linen cambric tucker; the delicate shoes and stockings; the gentle, refined manner-all bespoke a child of a different rank from those seen in that neighbourhood, and especially in that house. The child got up and stood aside when she saw the lady come with the key to unlock the door. When Zuleime had entered her room and lifted the babe to her lap, she called the little girl up to her side. She was a lovely child, indeed, with fair skin and delicate features, jet-black hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes, and large, mournful, dark grey eyes.

"You are a dear little girl. What is your name?" asked Zuleime, putting her arm round her waist caressingly.

"Ida. See what a nice new black dress I've got. They gave it to me when father died. Mother wears one, too. You've got a black dress on, too; is your father dead ?" "Yes, darling," said Zuleime, with her eyes suffused. "Don't cry, please! Mother cries so much; I do wish she wouldn't. Is the baby's father dead, too?"

Yes yes, love; the baby's father is dead, too!"

Well, please don't cry so! Mother says we have all got a father in heaven! Oh, please don't cry so; it gives me such a-such an ache in the breast to see anybody cry so," said the child, and her mournful but most beautiful eyes assumed a pleading, painful, almost querulous look.

"Who is your mother, sweet Ida ?" asked Zuleime, to change the subject of her own and her little companion's thoughts.

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Mrs. Knight, you know, the leading lady. Did they put the baby's father in a long red box and send him away ?” Yes, yes, Ida. Where does your mother live?"

"She lives here, in the back room down stairs. We came to-day. She is going to play to-night, and then I'll be by myself. Did they hold the baby up to kiss her father like they did me? And did he put his hand on her head and call

her his fawn-eyed darling? That was when he was on the bed; and afterwards he went to sleep, and they said he was dead. Was that the way with the baby's father?"

Tell me of your

"I don't want to talk about it, dear Ida. mother. What does she play on-the organ ?" "No; I don't know.

Yes I do, too-the stage. Look

at my nice new hat. It used to have a wreath of red roses round it; but when father died, mother took it off and put this black ribbon there. Mother wears roses on her head, though; at night, I mean. All day long she wears black, and looks so pale, and weeps; but at night she puts beautiful flowers in her hair, and sometimes gold and fine feathers, and she has such sweet long curls and rosy cheeks, and such beautiful dresses. And father used to wear beautiful clothes at night-red and gold, and feathers. I do want to see father so much; I wish they'd bring him back. Do you think it will be long before I see him?" asked the child, as the large tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Perhaps not, my love. Is your mother an actress, then ?" "Yes, that is what she is. Don't cry, now! It gives me a pain in my bosom. Please don't cry; if you don't, I won't," said the child, wiping her eyes. Then suddenly she exclaimed, "Oh! I forgot, I promised to bring the baby my playthings and my curly dog ;" and, so saying, the child ran away and scampered down stairs.

Zuleime looked in vain for her return, and finally concluded that her mother had detained her; but if the child did not come, somebody else did. Wilhelmina entered, and kindly inquired after her lodger's success in seeking work. When she learned her failure, she begged Zuleime not to be troubled, for that there was work in the house for her if she would take it; that the new boarder, Mrs. Knight, the leading lady of the Richmond Theatre, wanted assistance in making up some dresses that were to be ready in a few days; that she, Wilhelmina, had recommended their lodger; and if the young lady pleased, she would conduct her down and introduce her to Mrs. Knight. Zuleime thanked the kindhearted girl, and prepared to accompany her-sensible, amid all her other emotions, of a rustic's curiosity to see a really living actress, for she had never in her life seen one off the boards. She followed Wilhelmina down the stairs into the passage. Near the foot of the stairs was a door leading into

the first-floor back room. At this door Wilhelmina rapped. It was opened by Ida, who, as soon as she saw Zuleime, exclaimed, Oh, it's you! Come in. Mother, here is the baby's mother!"

"It is I, Mrs. Knight, with the person I spoke of. May we come in?" inquired Wilhelmina.

room.

"Assuredly. Do so," replied the sweetest, deepest voice Zuleime thought she had ever heard; and they entered the Wilhelmina introduced Mrs. Fairfax, and withdrew. The apartment in which Zuleime found herself was the bestfurnished room in the house, decidedly-having a good, warm-hued carpet on the floor; crimson stuff curtains at the only back window; a grate with a coal fire; a four-post bedstead, with tester, net valance, and a white counterpane; a bureau, with tall dressing-glass; and wash-stand, with china toilet-service. But it was in a state of confusion only less than that of the adjoining shop; trunks, boxes, and bandboxes of all sizes, forms, and colours, some corded and piled up one above the other, and some open and boiling up and over with all sorts of finery and tinsel, satins, silks, and velvets, feathers, flowers, and fustian, which also trailed upon the carpet, and strewed the chairs. An oil-painting, in a large heady gilt frame, leaned with its face against the wall. On the bed, a black mantle and bonnet, with a widow's veil, lay side by side with a gorgeous scarlet velvet train, embroidered with gold, an imitation ermine robe, a crown of gilt and paste, a plume of feathers, and great bunches of sham pearls. On a low trunk, in the midst of this sad chaos of poverty and glitter, mummery and mourning, sat one who immediately drew and fixed Zuleime's attention: a tall, noble-looking woman of perhaps thirty years of age, clothed in deep mourning, with her heavy black hair banded around her forehead and temples, and shading a countenance dark and cavernous, with its large hollow eyes and hollow cheeks, but majestic with power, earnestness, and truth, and beautiful with those grand, mournful eyes, whose mesmeric spell was felt by Zuleime, on whom they were now brought to bear.

"Take a seat, Mrs. Fairfax. You find me here in great confusion, because I have but just arrived, and have had to unpack, and look over all these trunks, to select and prepare no less than four costumes for the evening," said the same