tlessly
upon the paper. During this short pantomime, Walter had stolen
noiselessly across the matted floor, to the back of Madelaine's chair,
and knowing _all he now knew_, felt no conscientious scruple about the
propriety of reading over her shoulder the contents of the unfinished
letter. They were but what he was prepared to see, and yet his trance of
amazement was for a moment renewed by ocular demonstration to the truth
of what had been hitherto revealed to one of his senses only. The letter
was to himself--the reply to his last, addressed to Mlle. de St
Hilaire--the continuation of that delightful series he had for the last
twelve-month nearly been in the blissful habit of receiving from his
adored Adrienne. Here was the same autograph--the same tournure de
phrase--the same tone of thought and feeling (though less lively and
unembarrassed than in her earlier letters)--and yet the hand that
traced, the mind that guided, and the heart that dictated, were the hand
and mind and heart of Madelaine du Resnel!

"Madelaine! dear Madelaine!" were the first whispered words by which
Walter ventured to make his presence known to her. But low as was the
whisper--gentle as were the accents--a thunder-clap could not have
produced an effect more electric. Starting from her seat with a half
shriek, she would have fallen to the ground from excess of agitation and
surprise, but for Walter's supporting arm, and it required a world of
soothing and affectionate gentleness to restore her to any degree of
self-possession. Her first impulse, on regaining it, was the honourable
one of endeavouring to remove from Walter's observation the letter that
had been designed for his perusal under circumstances so different; but
quietly laying his hand upon the outspread paper, as she turned to
snatch it from the table, with the other arm he gently drew her from it
to himself, and with a smile in which there was more of tender than
bitter feeling, said--"It is too late, Madelaine--I know all--who could
have thought you such a little impostor!" Poor little Madelaine! never
was mortal maiden so utterly confounded, so bewildered as she, by the
detection, and by her own hurried and almost unintelligible attempts to
deprecate what, in the simplicity of her heart, she fancied must be the
high indignation of Walter at _her_ share of the imposition so long
practised on him.

Whether it was that, in the course of her agitated pleading, she spied
relenting i