ry apparition of Miss
Madeline Splurge,--her first visitor that day, whether on business or
curiosity.

"I wish to procure a small morocco pocket-book, Miss Wimple, if you
keep such things."

Miss Wimple, with a slight bow of assent, took from a glass
counter-case a paper box in which was a miscellaneous assortment of
such articles; there were five or six of the pocket-books. Madeline
selected one,--a small, flexible affair, of some dark-colored morocco
lined with pink silk. She paid the trifle the shy, demure little
librarian demanded, and was taking her leave in silence, without even a
"Good-day," when, as she was passing the door, Miss Wimple espied on
the counter, near where her customer had stood, a visiting-card; her
eye fell on the engraved name,--"Mr. Philip Withers"; of course Miss
Splurge had dropped it unawares. She hastened with it to the
door,--Madeline had just stept into the street,--

"This card is yours, I presume, Miss Splurge?"

Madeline turned upon her with a surprised air, inquiringly,--looked in
her own hands, and shook her handkerchief with the quick, nervous,
alarmed movement of one who suddenly discovers a very particular
loss,--became, in an instant, pale as death, stared for a moment at
Miss Wimple with fixed eyes, and slightly shivered. Then, quickly and
fiercely, she snatched the card from Miss Wimple's hand,--

"Where--where did you find this? Did--did I leave--drop--?"

"You left it on my counter," Miss Wimple quietly replied, with a
considerate self-possession that admirably counterfeited
unconsciousness of Madeline's consternation.

"Come hither, into the shop,--a word with you,"--and Madeline entered
quickly, and closed the door behind her. For a moment she leaned with
her elbow on the counter, and pressed her eyes with her fingers.

"Are you ill, Miss Splurge?" Miss Wimple gently inquired.

"No. Did you read what is on this card?"

"Yes."

"You--you--you read"----Madeline's hands were clenched, her face red
and distorted; she gnashed her teeth, and seemed choking.

"Why, Miss Splurge, what is the matter with you? Yes, I read the
name,--Mr. Philip Withers. The card lay on the counter,--I could not
know it was yours,--I read the name, and immediately brought it to you.
What excites you so? Sit down, and calm yourself; surely you are ill."

Madeline did not accept the stool Miss Wimple offered her, but,
availing herself of the pause to assume a forced calmness which left