Shocks of joy, they tell me, seldom kill. Of my own knowledge I cannot say, for I have had precious little experience of such shocks in my lifetime, Heaven knows; but in the present instance, I can safely aver, they had no such dismal effect on Ormiston. Nothing earthly could have given that young gentleman a greater shock of joy than the knowledge he was to behold the long hidden face of his idol. That that face was ugly, he did not for an instant believe, or, at least, it never would be ugly to him. With a form so perfect—a form a sylph might have envied—a voice sweeter than the Singing Fountain of Arabia, hands and feet the most perfectly beautiful the sun ever shone on, it was simply a moral and physical impossibility that they could be joined to a repulsive face. There was a remote possibility that it was a little less exquisite than those ravishing items, and that her morbid fancy made her imagine it homely, compared with them, but he knew he never would share in that opinion. It was the reasoning of love, rather than logic; for when love glides smiling in at the door, reason stalks gravely, not to say sulkily, out of the window, and, standing afar off, eyes disdainfully the didos and antics of her late tenement. There was very little reason, therefore, in Ormiston's head and heart, but a great deal of something sweeter, joy—joy that thrilled and vibrated through every nerve within him. Leaning against the portal, in an absurd delirium of delight—for it takes but a trifle to jerk those lovers from the slimiest depths of the Slough of Despond to the topmost peak of the mountain of ecstasy—he uncovered his head that the night-air might cool its feverish throbbings. But the night-air was as hot as his heart; and, almost suffocated by the sultry closeness, he was about to start for a plunge in the river, when the sound of coming footsteps and voices arrested him. He had met with so many odd ad ventures to-night that he stopped now to see who was coming; for on every hand all was silent and forsaken.

Footsteps and voices came closer; two figures took shape in the gloom, and emerged from the darkness into the glimmering lamp light. He recognised them both. One was the Earl of Rochester; the other, his dark-eyed, handsome page—that strange page with the face of the lost lady! The earl was chatting familiarly, and laughing obstreperously at something or other, while the boy merely wore a languid smile, as if anything further in that line were quite beneath his dignity.

“Silence and solitude,” said the earl, with a careless glance around, “I protest, Hubert, this night seems endless. How long is it till midnight?”

“An hour and a half at least, I should fancy,” answered the boy, with a strong foreign accent. “I know it struck ten as we passed St. Paul's.”

“This grand bonfire of our most worshipful Lord Mayor will be a sight worth seeing,” remarked the earl. “When all these piles are lighted, the city will be one sea of fire.”

“A slight foretaste of what most of its inhabitants will behold in another world,” said the page, with a French shrug. “I have heard Lilly's prediction that London is to be purified by fire, like a second Sodom; perhaps it is to be verified to-night.”

“Not unlikely; the dome of St. Paul's would be an excellent place to view the conflagration.”

“The river will do almost as well, my lord.”

“We will have a chance of knowing that presently,” said the earl, as he and his page descended to the river, where the little gilded barge lay moored, and the boatman waiting.

As they passed from sight Ormiston came forth, and watched thoughtfully after them. The face and figure were that of the lady, but the voice was different; both were clear and musical enough, but she spoke English with the purest accent, while his was the voice of a foreigner. It most have been one of those strange, unaccountable likenesses we sometimes see among perfect strangers, but the resemblance in this ease was something wonderful. It brought his thoughts back from himself and his own fortunate love, to his violently-smitten friend, Sir Norman, and his plague-stricken beloved; and he began speculating what he could possibly be about just then, or what he had discovered in the old ruin. Suddenly he was aroused; a moment before, the silence had been almost oppressive but now on the wings of the night, there came a shout. A tumult of voices and footsteps were approaching.

“Stop her! Stop her!” was cried by many voices; and the next instant a fleet figure went flying past him with a rush, and plunged head foremost into she river.

A slight female figure, with floating robes of white, waving hair of deepest, blackness, with a sparkle of jewels on neck and arms. Only for an instant did he see it; but he knew it well, and his very heart stood still. “Stop her! stop her! she is ill of the plague!” shouted the crowd, preying panting on; but they came too late; the white vision had gone down into the black, sluggish river, and disappeared.

“Who is it? What is it? Where is it?” cried two or three watchmen, brandishing their halberds, and rushing up; and the crowd—a small mob of a dozen or so—answered all at once: “She is delirious with the plague; she was running through the streets; we gave chase, but she out-stepped us, and is now at the bottom of the Thames.”

Ormiston, waited to hear no more, but rushed precipitately down to the waters edge. The alarm has now reached the boats on the river, and many eyes within them were turned in the direction whence she had gone down. Soon she reappeared on the dark surface—something whiter than snow, whiter than death; shining like silver, shone the glittering dress and marble face of the bride. A small batteau lay close to where Ormiston stood; in two seconds he had sprang in, shoved it off, and was rowing vigorously toward that snow wreath in the inky river. But he was forestalled, two hands white and jeweled as her own, reached over the edge of a gilded barge, and, with the help of the boatmen, lifted her in. Before she could be properly established on the cushioned seats, the batteau was alongside, and Ormiston turned a very white and excited face toward the Earl of Rochester.

“I know that lady, my lord! She is a friend of mine, and you must give her to me!”

“Is it you, Ormiston? Why what brings you here alone on the river, at this hour?”

“I have come for her,” said Ormiston, pressing over to lift the lady. “May I beg you to assist me, my lord, in transferring her to my boat?”

“You must wait till I see her first,” said Rochester, partly raising her head, and holding a lamp close to her face, “as I have picked her out, I think I deserve it. Heavens! what an extraordinary likeness!”

The earl had glanced at the lady, then at his page, again at the lady, and lastly at Ormiston, his handsome countenance full of the most unmitigated wonder. “To whom?” asked Ormiston, who had very little need to inquire.

“To Hubert, yonder. Why, don't you see it yourself? She might be his twin-sister!”

“She might be, but as she is not, you will have the goodness to let me take charge of her. She has escaped from her friends, and I must bring her back to them.”

He half lifted her as he spoke; and the boatman, glad enough to get rid of one sick of the plague, helped her into the batteau. The lady was not insensible, as might be supposed, after her cold bath, but extremely wide-awake, and gazing around her with her great, black, shining eyes. But she made no resistance; either she was too faint or frightened for that, and suffered herself to be hoisted about, “passive to all changes.” Ormiston spread his cloak in the stern of the boat, and laid her tenderly upon it, and though the beautiful, wistful eyes were solemnly and unwinkingly fixed on his face, the pale, sweet lips parted not—uttered never a word. The wet bridal robes were drenched and dripping about her, the long dark hair hung in saturated masses over her neck and arms, and contrasted vividly with a face, Ormiston thought at once, the whitest, most beautiful, and most stonelike he had ever seen.

“Thank you, my man; thank you, my lord,” said Ormiston, preparing to push off.

Rochester, who had been leaning from the barge, gazing in mingled curiosity, wonder, and admiration at the lovely face, turned now to her champion.

“Who is she, Ormiston?” he said, persuasively.

But Ormiston only laughed, and rowed energetically for the shore. The crowd was still lingering; and half a dozen hands were extended to draw the boat up to the landing. He lifted the light form in his arms and bore it from the boat; but before he could proceed farther with his armful of beauty, a faint but imperious voice spoke: “Please put me down. I am not a baby, and can walk myself.”

Ormiston was so surprised, or rather dismayed, by this unexpected address, that he complied at once, and placed her on her own pretty feet. But the young lady's sense of propriety was a good deal stronger than her physical powers; and she swayed and tottered, and had to cling to her unknown friend for support.

“You are scarcely strong enough, I am afraid, dear lady,” he said, kindly. “You had better let me carry you. I assure you I am quite equal to it, or even a more weighty burden, if necessity required.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the faint voice, faintly; “but I would rather walk. Where are you taking me to?”

“To your own house, if you wish—it is quite close at hand.”

“Yes. Yes. Let us go there! Prudence is there, and she will take care of me.”.

“Will she?” said Ormiston, doubtfully. “I hope you do not suffer much pain!”

“I do not suffer at all,” she said, wearily; “only I am so tired. Oh, I wish I were home!”

Ormiston half led, half lifted her up the stairs.

“You are almost there, dear lady—see, it is close at hand!”

She half lifted her languid eyes, but did not speak. Leaning panting on his arm, he drew her gently on until they reached her door. It was still unfastened. Prudence had kept her word, and not gone near it; and he opened it, and helped her in.

“Where now?” he asked.

“Up stairs,” she said, feebly. “I want to go to my own room.”

Ormiston knew where that was, and assisted her there as tenderly as he could have done La Masque herself. He paused on the threshold; for the room was dark.

“There is a lamp and a tinder-box on the mantel,” said the faint, sweet voice, “if you will only please to find them.”

Ormiston crowed the room—fortunately he knew the latitude of the place —and moving his hand with gingerly precaution along the mantel-shelf, lest he should upset any of the gimcracks thereon, soon obtained the articles named, and struck a light. The lady was leaning wearily against the door-post, but now she came forward, and dropped exhausted into the downy pillows of a lounge.

“Is there anything I can do for you, madame?” began Ormiston, with as solicitous an air as though he had been her father. “A glass of wine would be of use to you, I think, and then, if you wish, I will go for a doctor.”

“You are very kind. You will find wine and glasses in the room opposite this, and I feel so faint that I think you had better bring me some.”

Ormiston moved across the passage, like the good, obedient young man that he was, filled a glass of Burgundy, and as he was returning with it, was startled by a cry from the lady that nearly made him drop and shiver it on the floor.

“What under heaven has come to her now?” he thought, hastening in, wondering how she could possibly have come to grief since he left her.

She was sitting upright on the sofa, her dress palled down off her shoulder where the plague-spot had been, and which, to his amazement, he saw now pure and stainless, and free from every loathsome trace.

“You are cured of the plague!” was all he could say.

“Thank God!” she exclaimed, fervently clasping her hands. “But oh! how can it have happened? It must be a miracle!”

“No, it was your plunge into the river; I have heard of one or two such cases before, and if ever I take it,” said Ormiston, half laughing, half shuddering, “my first rush shall be for old Father Thames. Here, drink this, I am certain it will complete the cure.”

The girl—she was nothing but a girl—drank it off and sat upright like one inspired with new life. As she set down the glass, she lifted her dark, solemn, beautiful eyes to his face with a long, searching gaze.

“What is your name?” she simply asked.

“Ormiston, madame,” he said, bowing low.

“You have saved my life, have you not?”

“It was the Earl of Rochester who reserved you from the river; but I would have done it a moment later.”

“I do not mean that. I mean”—with a slight shudder—“are you not one of those I saw at the plague-pit? Oh! that dreadful, dreadful plague-pit!” she cried, covering her face with her hands.

“Yes. I am one of those.”

“And who was the other?”

“My friend, Sir Norman Kingsley.

“Sir Norman Kingsley?” she softly repeated, with a sort of recognition in her voice and eyes, while a faint roseate glow rose softly over her face and neck. “Ah! I thought—was it to his house or yours I was brought?”

“To his,” replied Ormiston, looking at her curiously; for he had seen that rosy glow, and was extremely puzzled thereby; “from whence, allow me to add, you took your departure rather unceremoniously.”

“Did I?” she said, in a bewildered sort of way. “It is all like a dream to me. I remember Prudence screaming, and telling me I had the plague, and the unutterable horror that filled me when I heard it; and then the next thing I recollect is, being at the plague-pit, and seeing your face and his bending over me. All the horror came back with that awakening, and between it and anguish of the plague-sore I think I fainted again.” (Ormiston nodded sagaciously), “and when I next recovered I was alone in a strange room, and in bed. I noticed that, though I think I must have been delirious. And then, half-mad with agony, I got out to the street, somehow and ran, and ran, and ran, until the people saw and followed me here. I suppose I had some idea of reaching home when I came here; but the crowd pressed so close behind, and I felt though all my delirium, that they would bring me to the pest-house if they caught me, and drowning seemed to me preferable to that. So I was in the river before I knew it—and you know the rest as well as I do. But I owe you my life, Mr. Ormiston—owe it to you and another; and I thank you both with all my heart.”

“Madame, you are too grateful; and I don't know as we have done anything much to deserve it.”

“You have saved my life; and though you may think that a valueless trifle, not worth speaking of, I assure you I view it in a very different light,” she said, with a half smile.

“Lady, your life is invaluable; but as to our saving it, why, you would not have us throw you alive into the plague-pit, would you?”

“It would have been rather barbarous, I confess, but there are few who would risk infection for the sake of a mere stranger. Instead of doing as you did, you might have sent me to the pest-house, you know.”

“Oh, as to that, all your gratitude is due to Sir Norman. He managed the whole affair, and what is more, fell—but I will leave that for himself to disclose. Meantime, may I ask the name of the lady I have been so fortunate as to serve!”

“Undoubtedly, sir—my name is Leoline.”

“Leoline is only half a name.”

“Then I am so unfortunate an only to possess half a name, for I never had any other.”

Ormiston opened his eyes very wide indeed.

“No other! you must have had a father some time in your life; most people have,” said the young gentleman, reflectively.

She shook her head a little sadly.

“I never had, that I know of, either father or mother, or any one but Prudence. And by the way,” she said, half starting up, “the first thing to be done is, to see about this same Prudence. She must be somewhere in the house.”

“Prudence is nowhere in the house,” said Ormiston, quietly; “and will not be, she says, far a month to come. She is afraid of the plague.”

“Is she?” said Leoline, fixing her eyes on him with a powerful glance. “How do you know that?”

“I heard her say so not half an hour ago, to a lady a few doors distant. Perhaps you know her—La Masque.”

“That singular being! I don't know her; but I have seen her often. Why was Prudence talking of me to her, I wonder?”

“That I do not know; but talking of you the was, and she said she was coming back here no more. Perhaps you will be afraid to stay here alone?”

“Oh no, I am used to being alone,” she said, with a little sigh, “but where”—hesitating and blushing vividly, “where is—I mean, I should like to thank sir Norman Kingsley.”

Ormiston saw the blush and the eyes that dropped, and it puzzled him again beyond measure.

“Do you know Sir Norman Kingsley?” he suspiciously asked.

“By sight I know many of the nobles of the court,” she answered evasively, and without looking up: “they pass here often, and Prudence knows them all; and so I have learned to distinguish them by name and sight, your friend among the rest.”

“And you would like to see my friend?” he said, with malicious emphasis.

“I would like to thank him,” retorted the lady, with some asperity: “you have told me how much I owe him, and it strikes me the desire is somewhat natural.”

“Without doubt it is, and it will save Sir Norman much fruitless labor; for even now he is in search of you, and will neither rest nor sleep until he finds you.”

“In search of me!” she said softly, and with that rosy glow again illumining her beautiful face; “he is indeed kind, and I am most anxious to thank him.”

“I will bring him here in two hours, then,” said Ormiston, with energy; “and though the hour may be a little unseasonable, I hope you will not object to it; for if you do, he will certainly not survive until morning.”

She gayly laughed, but her cheek was scarlet.

“Rather than that, Mr. Ormiston, I will even see him tonight. You will find me here when you come.”

“You will not run away again, will you?” said Ormiston, looking at her doubtfully. “Excuse me; but you have a trick of doing that, you know.”

Again she laughed merrily.

“I think you may safely trust me this time. Are you going?”

By way of reply, Ormiston took his hat and started for the door. There he paused, with his hand upon it.

“How long have you known Sir Norman Kingsley?” was his careless, artful question.

But Leoline, tapping one little foot on the floor, and looking down at it with hot cheeks and humid ayes, answered not a word.