se. Yes, she's proud,
she's handsome and dreadful cut up, I can tell you, at the news I
brought her."

The woman covered her face with her hands with a low moan. Mr.
Parmalee composedly went on:

"She knew your picture the minute she clapped eyes on it. I was afraid
she might holler, as you wimmin do, at the sight, and her husband and
another young woman were present, but she's got grit, that girl, the
real sort. She turns round, by George! and gives me such a look--went
through me like a carving-knife--and gets up without a word and walks
away. And she never sent for me nor asked a question about it,
although I mentioned you gave it to me, until I forced her to it, and
after that no one need talk to me about the curiosity of the fair sex."

"Does her husband know?"

"No; and he's as jealous as a Turk. I wrote her a note--just a
line--and sent it by that other young woman I spoke of, and what does
he do but come to me like a roaring lion, and like to pummel my innards
out! I owe him one for that, and I'll pay him off, too. I had to send
again to my lady before she would condescend to see me, but when she
did, I must say she behaved like a trump. She gave me thirty
sovereigns plump down, promised me three hundred pounds, and told me to
fetch you along. It ain't as much as I expected to make in this
speculation; but, on the whole, I consider it a pretty tolerable fair
stroke of business."

"Thank God!" the woman whispered, "thank God! I shall see my lost
darling once before I die!"

"Now don't you go and take on, Mrs. Denover," observed Mr. Parmalee,
"or you'll use yourself up, you know, and then you won't be able to
travel to-morrow. And after to-morrow, and after you see your----
Well, my lady, there's the other little trip back to Uncle Sam's
domains you've got to make; for you ain't a-going to stay in England
and pester that poor young lady's life out?"

"No," said Mrs. Denover, mournfully--"no, I will never trouble her
again. Only let me see her once more, and I will go back to my native
land and wait until the merciful God sends me death."

"Oh, pooh!" said the artist; "don't you talk like that--it kind of
makes my flesh creep, and there ain't no sense in it. There's Aunt
Deborah, down to our section--you remind me of her--she was always
going on so, wishing she was in heaven, or something horrid, the whole
time. It's want of victuals more than anything else. You haven't had
any dinner, I'