ials lay
untouched before me on the table. How long the silence might have
lasted I cannot say. She abruptly broke it. Her instinct warned her that
silence might have its dangers, in our position. She turned to me with
an effort; she said, uneasily, "I don't think you ought to write your
letter to-night, sir."

"Why not?"

"You know nothing of me. Surely you ought not to recommend a person who
is a stranger to you? And I am worse than a stranger. I am a miserable
wretch who has tried to commit a great sin--I have tried to destroy
myself. Perhaps the misery I was in might be some excuse for me, if you
knew it. You ought to know it. But it's so late to-night, and I am so
sadly tired--and there are some things, sir, which it is not easy for a
woman to speak of in the presence of a man."

Her head sunk on her bosom; her delicate lips trembled a little; she
said no more. The way to reassure and console her lay plainly enough
before me, if I chose to take it. Without stopping to think, I took it.

Reminding her that she had herself proposed writing to me when we met
that evening, I suggested that she should wait to tell the sad story of
her troubles until it was convenient to her to send me the narrative
in the form of a letter. "In the mean time," I added, "I have the most
perfect confidence in you; and I beg as a favor that you will let me put
it to the proof. I can introduce you to a dressmaker in London who is at
the head of a large establishment, and I will do it before I leave you
to-night."

I dipped my pen in the ink as I said the words. Let me confess frankly
the lengths to which my infatuation led me. The dressmaker to whom I
had alluded had been my mother's maid in f ormer years, and had been
established in business with money lent by my late step-father, Mr.
Germaine. I used both their names without scruple; and I wrote my
recommendation in terms which the best of living women and the ablest of
existing dressmakers could never have hoped to merit. Will anybody find
excuses for me? Those rare persons who have been in love, and who have
not completely forgotten it yet, may perhaps find excuses for me. It
matters little; I don't deserve them.

I handed her the open letter to read.

She blushed delightfully; she cast one tenderly grateful look at me,
which I remembered but too well for many and many an after-day. The next
moment, to my astonishment, this changeable creature changed again. Some
forgotten consi