the poor actress was paid for rent, to keep the roof over her head that bitter weather, and to supply the daily twopence worth of milk for the child. If a few pence were left over, they were spent in cheap pilot-bread, sparingly eaten by herself. For weeks together she had no fire, no fuel, but would manage to keep her child warm by seating her in the middle of the bed, well wrapped up. By the side of the head of the bedstead, and looking to the south, was the only back window of her room. When she had work, she would sit by this window and sew, while her child sat wrapped up in the bed; when she had no work, she would still sit there and rock her child upon her bosom, singing to her all the while. Unearthly and spiritual was the wan, moonlight face, with its large, luminous eyes-unearthly and spiritual was the voice in which she sang her child to rest, as she sat by the south window. She found room in her burdened heart to love that sunny window, with its glimpses of a river landscape; with waterfalls, and hills, and forests; and nearer, lying between her and the water, the pleasure-grounds around a fair mansion of white freestone that fronted on the river. That fine place took in nearly a whole square, and was separated from this poor house and lot, first, by a broad, back alley; then a tall brick wall, with capacious stables and coach-houses; then the garden, with terraces and conservatory; and so up to the Venetian back piazza of the mansion. Every day, and all day long through the glowing autumn weather, she had sat and feasted her eyes and mind upon these pleasure-grounds, with their gorgeous flowers and magnificent trees, and the palace-home in the midst a picture of beauty and glory, telling besides of plenty, elegance, refinement, leisure, artistic taste, intellectual pursuits, family union, domestic happiness. Many a time, when going out to look for work, she had walked quite around the square to get in front of the mansion, and satisfy her soul with the architectural beauty and elegance of the edifice, as it stood elevated by a flight of terraces far above the street, and commanding for many miles the mighty course of the river. Often in the autumn weather had she walked under this southern wall; and, even in the midst of her deep distresses, looked up in childish longing at the splendid autumnal flowers trailing luxuriantly over the iron railing. Why did this place interest her so? Not because it was a palace-home, in

such strong contrast to her own poor dwelling-not because she passed it almost every day-not because its magnificent grounds were ever before her sight from her own poor room. Ah, no! But because there was a rural character, and a fine, old, ancestral look about the place, that reminded her of her dear, lost home. Everything connected with the premises interested her-even that capacious family carriage, with its round-bodied, grey coach-horses, and its fat coachman, which appeared every afternoon at a certain hour to take the family out to drive. She did not care to inquire who lived there. One day, when walking in front of the house on the other street, she had seen a lady in deep mourning come out and get in the carriage. She had time to see that the lady appeared bowed in grief, but possessed so sweet and benevolent a face that she was encouraged to call and ask for work. So the next day she entered the beautiful grounds, and ascended the stone steps that led flight by flight up the rising terraces until she reached the Grecian portico and rang the bell. The door was opened by a manservant, to whom she communicated her business. He called a waiting-woman, who came, and, after hearing what the visitor wanted, explained civilly enough that all their needlework was done by a young person who lived companion to her mistress, who was too infirm to see strangers. Zuleime never tried there again; but the sweet sorrowful face of the lady haunted her, and she gazed from her poor window upon the magnificent pleasure-grounds with more of interest than ever.

Truly the world is "full of paper walls." How little Zuleime surmised that the mourner in the palace sorrowed over the very same bereavement that had laid her own life wastethat the fair-haired, tender-eyed lady whose grief-worn countenance haunted her son was the mother of her lost Frank; that the proud mansion-house, in the midst of its pleasuregrounds, was the rightful inheritance of the poor babe that rested on her wasted bosom !

How little did the childless and desolate recluse of the palace guess that her lost son's widow sat pining, starving so near her! The world is full of paper walls, but fate makes them firmer, stronger, more indestructible than adamant.

.

Upon that very same December night that found Mrs.

R

Clifton and Catherine rejoicing over the good news they had heard from their friends, upon that very night Zuleime sat shivering in her room, without fire, food, or light. She had given her child its cup of milk, and thanked Heaven that she had it to give, though she herself went hungry; and she had wrapped the babe in her shawl, and sat by the window, singing and rocking her to sleep. The room was intensely cold; she was chilled to the heart; her feet were numb and almost lifeless. The only warmth in her body seemed to be the bosom at which the child was 'pressed. The snow was falling fast without, but even through its flakes she saw the lighted windows of the mansion-house glowing through the crimson curtains, and streaming redly across the snow-clad ground; and she sat and thought of the comforts within that parlour. While she sat there thinking, there came a gentle knock at her door.

"Who is there?" inquired Zuleime.

"It is I, Mrs. Fairfax," replied the voice of the actress. "Come in, Mrs. Knight."

The actress entered, saying, with a little pardonable tact, "Oh, you are putting your child to sleep in the dark. It is singular some little ones never will go to sleep where there is a light burning. Is she asleep?"

"Yes," replied Zuleime.

"Then please put her in bed, my dear, and come down stairs with me. I have something to talk to you about." Zuleime laid her little girl in bed, and, tottering with weakness, from her long fast and the cold, accompanied the actress down stairs.

Mrs. Knight opened her own room, and revealed a warm coal-fire burning in the grate, and a little supper-table set out with coffee, French rolls, nice butter, and stewed oysters. She set the cushioned rocking-chair for Zuleime, between the fire and the table, and pushed her gently into the seat, saying, "I have holiday to-night, and for a week from tonight, because the opera troupe are here; and so I thought I would just celebrate its commencement by a supper and a ball for two!" and she placed before her visitor a plate of oysters and a cup of coffee. When the little supper was fairly commenced, Mrs. Knight said, "I did not send for you only to take coffee with me-I wished to speak to you on a matter of business. I have been wishing some time to

do so, but scarcely knew how to do it without wounding or offending you." She paused.

"Ah! are you so considerate? Yet you need not fear. I know you could not think of anything to say which would -would hurt me."

"At least, I only mean your good; and if I err, forgive me.

you will

"Gentle friend! I am used to all the hardness and vulgarity against which a woman has to break her heart and spirit, in struggling through the rough world. Now, think of that; and think whether I can be hurt by anything your kind heart impels you to say. No, I shall be very grateful!"

66

Well, this is it, then, my dear.

I have not been able to

avoid seeing your fruitless efforts to maintain yourself and

child, for the last three months.

made five shillings a week."

I fear you have scarcely

"I have not made that for the last month."

"And there seems to be no chance of doing better-with your needle, I mean."

66 And your situation is getting worse every day. Poor child! your very shoes are almost gone-there, forgive me! -I have spoken rudely."

"No, no-you have spoken the truth in love. Any truth can be told in the spirit of love."

"And you are wasting away—you will be thrown upon your sick bed; then what will become of your child ?” Alas, God knows! If we both could die"

66

دو

Yes, if you both could. Death is no evil at all." As the actress said this, her hollow, shadowy face grew dark, and her large, luminous eyes glanced aside, and fell upon the floor-fixed in an intense, suffering, almost querulous gaze, as if of one enduring pain. 'It must come abruptly at last,' she said, looking up suddenly. My dear, have you any insurmountable prejudices against a theatrical life for yourself?" Startled by the abruptness of the proposition, Zuleime raised her eyes to the beautiful, dark, irritated countenance before her, without replying.

"You don't understand me. Well, then, to put it plainer, if nothing better at all could be found for you, would you absolutely refuse to go upon the stage ?"

Zuleime had understood her very well; and if she still hesitated, it was from a reluctance to wound the spirit of the actress.

"Do you, then, consider the histrionic profession disreputable ?" asked Mrs. Knight, with the same suffering, querulous, almost cross expression of the eyes.

"No," said Zuleime very gently, "I do not. Not the profession that Mrs. Siddons ennobled. I think it truly The youngest of the sister arts,

Where all their beauties blend."

"Well, then, my question: Would you object to going on the stage yourself?"

"I am not fit for it," replied Zuleime evasively.

"I do not know that. I need not tell you that you are young and pretty, and singularly graceful, nor that you have a very fine voice for singing-these form a very good foundation; and in elocution, my dear, I would myself become your instructress. What say you?"

"That you are kinder to me than anyone has ever been since I left home; and that I am very, very grateful,” Zuleime said very gently.

"But that you despise the calling too thoroughly to follow it, even for bread," said the actress bitterly.

"No, no! I did not say or mean that, indeed; but I, you see, have neither the taste, talent, nor courage requisite !"

66

"Why not?"

"I was brought up in the privacy of domestic life; in the deep seclusion of the country. I have never been used to society, much less to publicity; and I am sure that, no matter how well I might be instructed in my part, when I should come before an audience I should forget all about it, and half die of shame."

"Ah, I suppose you have no vocation for it. An actress forgets her own identity in that of the character she represents, and that enables her to go through things she could not otherwise endure; but, my dear, I do not see anything else you can do ; and as for the stage fright,' as it is called among us, you would soon get that off." Zuleime shook her head.

"My dear, you do not yet know the plan I have for you. I never thought, no one would ever think of a sudden grand