ters her boy friend, Arthur, who for a handful of pennies, and
under injunction of secrecy, cheerfully undertakes the duty. To the
house of the lad's mother, far away as it was, Adele had wandered
frequently of late, and had borne away from time to time some trifling
memento of the dead one whose memory so endeared the spot. It happens
that she continues her stroll thither on this occasion; and the poor
woman, toward whom Adele's charities have flowed with a profusion that
has astounded the Doctor, repays some new gift by placing in her hands a
little embroidered kerchief, "too fine for such as she," which had
belonged to Madame Arles. A flimsy bit of muslin daintily embroidered;
but there is a name stitched upon its corner, for which Adele treasures
it past all reckoning,--the name of _Julie Chalet_.

It was as if the dead one had suddenly come back and whispered it in her
ear,--Julie Chalet. The spring birds sung the name in chorus as she
walked home; and on the grave-stone, under the cross, she seemed to see
it cut upon the marble,--Julie Chalet.

Adele has written to her father, of course, in those days when the first
shock of the new revelation had passed. How could she do otherwise? If
she has poured out the bitterness of her grief and of her isolation, she
has mercifully spared him any reproach!

"I think I now understand," she writes, "the reason of your long absence
from me. Whatever other griefs I bear, I will not believe that it has
been from lack of affection for me. I recall that day, dear papa, when,
with my head lying on your bosom, you said to me, 'She is unworthy; I
will love you for both.' You must! But was she, papa, so utterly
unworthy? I think I have known her; nay, I feel almost sure,--sure that
these arms held her in the moment when she breathed adieu to the world.
If ever bad, I am sure that she must have grown into goodness. I cannot,
I will not, think otherwise. I can tell you so many of her kind deeds as
will take away your condemnation. In this hope I live, dear papa.

"I have found her true name too, at last,--Julie Chalet,--is it not so?
I wonder with what feeling you will read it; will it be with a wakened
fondness? will it be with loathing? I tremble while I ask. You shall go
with me (will you not?) _to her grave_; and there a kind Heaven will put
in our hearts what memories are best.

"I know now the secret of your caution in respect to Reuben; you have
been unwilling that _your chil