invocation seemed
literally answered, when she was suddenly conscious of a strange
bubbling sensation, and over her parted, laughing lips crept the
crimson that fed her heart.

At this moment the child's nurse, a pretty bright-eyed young
coquette, hurried toward the group, accompanied by a companion of the
same class; and as she approached and seized the handles of the
carriage, Mrs. Orme turned away. The hemorrhage was not copious, but
steady, and lowering her thick veil, she endeavoured to stanch its
flow. Her handkerchief, already damp from contact with the wet hat,
soon became saturated, and she was obliged to substitute the end of
her lace mantle.

Fortunately Mrs. Waul, impatiently watching for her return, caught a
glimpse of the yet distant figure and hastened to meet her.

"Are you crying? What is the matter?"

"My lungs are bleeding; lend me a handkerchief. Try and find a
carriage."

"What caused it? Something must have happened?"

"Don't worry me now. Only help me to get home."

Screened both by veils and parasols, the two had almost gained the
street, when they met a trio of gentlemen.

One asked in unmistakable New-England English:

"Laurance, where is your father?"

And a voice which had once epitomized for Minnie Merle the "music of
the spheres," answered in mellow tones:

"He has been in London, but goes very soon to Italy."

Mrs. Waul felt a trembling hand laid on her arm, and turned anxiously
to her companion.

"Give me time. My strength fails me. I can't walk so fast."

The excitement of an hour had overthrown the slow work of weeks; and
after many days the physicians peremptorily ordered her away from
Paris.

"Home! Let us go home. You have not been yourself since we reached
this city. In New York you will get strong."

As Mrs. Waul spoke she stroked one of the invalid's thin hands, that
hung listlessly over the side of the sofa.

"I think Phoebe is right. America would cure you," added the
grey-haired man, whose heart was yearning for his native land.

Alluring, seductive as the Siren song that floated across Sicilian
waves, was the memory of her fair young daughter to this suffering
weary mother; and at the thought of clasping Regina in her arms, of
feeling her tender velvet lips once more on her cheek, the lonely
heart of the desolate woman throbbed fiercely.

Her sands of life seamed ebbing fast,--the end might not be distant;
who could tell? Why not go back--give up the