Early morning in the great city, but the buzz and clamor were fairly under way, and the streets as full of busy, pushing, elbowing life as if night and silence had never rested above the tall roofs and chimney pots.

With the rattle of the first cart wheel on the pavement, Madeline had started broad awake. As the din increased, and sleep refused to return to the startled senses, all unused to these city sounds, she arose, and completing her toilet with some haste, seated herself at her window to look out upon the scene so new to her.

What a world of strange emotions passing and repassing beneath her eye! What hopes and fears; what carelessness and heartache! How they hurried to and fro, each apparently intent upon his own thoughts and purposes.

She gazed down until her vision wearied of the motley, ever-changing, yet ever the same crowd; and then she reclined in the downy depths of a great easy chair, closed her eyes, and thought of Lucian. After all, what meaning had this restless moving throng for her? Only one; Lucian. What was this surging sea of humanity to her save that, because of its roar and clamor, they two were made more isolated, therefore nearer to each other?

The morning wore away, and she began to realize how very soon she should be with her hero, and then no more of separation. Her heart bounded at this thought.

Some one tapped softly at her door. She opened it quickly, thinking only of Lucian. It was not Lucian, however, but a veiled woman who stepped within the room, closing the door as she came.

Madeline fell back a pace, and gazed at the intruder with a look of startled inquiry which was, however, free from fear. She had not thought of it before, it flashed across her mind now that this fact was odd; but in all her morning's ruminations, she had not once thought of the mysterious stranger of the railway episode. Yet now the first words that took shape in her mind, at the entrance of this unexpected visitor, were "Clarence Vaughan, M. D." She almost spoke them.

With a quick, graceful movement, the stranger removed the shrouding veil; and Madeline gazed wonderingly on the loveliest face she had ever seen or dreamed of. It was a pure, pale face, lighted by lustrous dark eyes, crowned by waving masses of dark silky hair; exquisitely molded features, upon which there rested an expression of mingled weariness and resignation, the look of

One could imagine such a woman lifting to her lips the full goblet of life's sparkling elixir, and putting it away with her own hand, lest its intoxicating richness should shut from her senses the fragrance of Spring violets, and dim her vision of the world beyond.

They formed a decided contrast, these two, standing face to face.

One, with the calm that comes only when storm clouds have swept athwart life's sky, leaving behind marks of their desolating progress, but leaving, too, calm after tempest; after restlessness, repose.

The other, stretching out her hand like a pleased child to woo the purple lightning from the distance, buoyant with bright hopes, with nothing on brow or lip to indicate how that proud head would bear itself after it had been bowed before the passing storm.

"Pardon me," said the lady, in a sweet contralto. "I think I am not mistaken; this is the young lady who arrived last evening, and is registered,"—she looked full in the girl's eyes—"as Miss Weir?"

Madeline's eyes drooped before that searching gaze, but she answered, simply: "Yes."

"You are naturally much astonished to see me here, and my errand is a delicate one. Since I have seen you, however, I have lost every doubt I may have entertained as to the propriety of my visit. Will you trust me so far as to answer a few simple questions?"

The words of the stranger had put to flight the first idea formed in her mind, namely, that this visit was a mistake. It was intended for her, and now, who had instigated it? She looked up into the face of her visitor and said, with her characteristic frankness of speech:

"Who sent you to me?"

The abruptness of the question caused the stranger to smile.

"One who is the soul of honor and the friend of all womankind," she said, with a soft light in her eyes.

Madeline's eyes still searched her face. "And his name is that," she said, putting the card of Clarence Vaughan upon the table between them.

"Yes; and this reminds me, I have not yet introduced myself. Here is my card."

She placed in the hand of Madeline a delicate bit of cardboard bearing the name, "Olive Girard."

Silence fell between them for a moment, and then Olive Girard spoke.

"Won't you ask me to be seated, and hear what I wish to say, Miss Weir?"

She hesitated over the name, and Madeline, perceiving it, said:

"You think Weir is not my name?"

"Frankly, I do," smiled Mrs. Girard; "but just now the name matters little. Pardon me, but I am more interested in your face than your name. I came here because it seemed my duty, and to oblige a friend; now I wish to serve you for your own sake, to be your friend, if you will let me."

Still Madeline's brain kept thinking, thinking; and she put her questions rather as commentaries on her own thoughts than as her share in a conversation.

"Why did Mr. Vaughan send you to me?"

They had seated themselves, at a sign from Madeline, and Mrs. Girard drew her chair nearer to the girl as she answered:

"Because he feared for you."

"Because he feared for me!" Madeline's face flushed hotly; "feared what?"

"He feared," said Olive Girard, turning her face full upon her questioner, "what I feel assured is the truth, having seen you—simply that you do not know aright the man in whose company you came to this place."

Madeline turned her eyes upon her guest and the blood went slowly out of her face, but she made no reply, and Mrs. Girard continued:

"I will ask you once more, before I proceed further, do you object to answering a few questions? Of course I am willing to be likewise interrogated," she added, smiling.

Over the girl's face a look was creeping that Aunt Hagar, seeing, could readily have interpreted. She nodded her head, and said briefly: "Go on."

"First, then," said her interrogator, "are you entirely without friends in this city? Except, of course," she added, quickly, "your escort of last night."

"Yes." Madeline's countenance never altered, and she kept her eyes fully fixed on her companion's face.

"Are—are you without parents or guardian?"

"Yes."

"As I thought; and now, pardon the seeming impertinence of this question, did you come here as the companion of the man who was your escort, or did mere accident put you under his charge?"

"The 'accident' that put me in the charge of Mr. Davlin was—myself," said the girl, in a full, clear voice. "And he is my only guardian, and will be."

Olive Girard pushed back her chair, and rising, came and stood before her, with outstretched hand and pleading, compassionate eyes.

"Just as I feared," she sighed; "the very worst. My poor child, do you know the character and occupation of this man?"

Madeline sprang to her feet, and putting one nervous little hand upon the back of the chair she had occupied, moved back a pace, and said, in a low, set tone:

"If you have come to say aught against Lucian Davlin, you will find no listener here. I am satisfied with him, and trust him fully. When I desire to know more of his 'character and occupation,' I can learn it from his own lips. What warrant had that man," pointing to Clarence Vaughan's card, "for dogging me here, and then sending you to attempt to poison my mind against my best friend? I tell you, I will not listen!"

A bright spot burned on either cheek, and the little hand resting on the chair back clinched itself tighter.

Olive Girard drew a step nearer the now angry girl, and searched her face with grave eyes.

"If I said you were standing on the verge of a horrible precipice, that your life and soul were in danger, would you listen then?" she asked, sternly.

"No," said Madeline, doggedly, drawing farther away as she spoke; "not unless I saw the danger with my own eyes. And in that case I should not need your warning," she added, dryly.

"And when your own eyes see the danger, it will be too late to avert it," said Olive, bitterly. "I know your feeling at this moment, and I know the heartache sure to follow your rashness. What are you, and what do you hope or expect to be, to the man you call Lucian Davlin?" She spoke his name as if it left the taste of poison in her mouth.

The girl's head dropped until it rested on the hands clasped upon the chair before her; cold fingers seemed clutched upon her heart. Across her memory came trooping all his love words of the past, and among them,—she remembered it now for the first time,—among them all, the word wife had never once been uttered. In that moment, a thought new and terrible possessed her soul; a new and baleful light seemed shining upon the pictures of the past, imparting to each a shameful, terrible meaning. She uttered a low moan like that of some wounded animal, and suddenly uplifting her head, turned upon Olive Girard a face in which passion and a vague terror were strangely mingled.

"What are you saying? What are you daring to say to me!" she ejaculated, in tones half angry, half terror-stricken, wholly pitiful. "What horrible thing are you trying to torture me with?"

She would have spoken in indignation, but the new thought in her heart frightened the wrath from her voice. She dared not say "I am to be his wife," with these forebodings whispering darkly within her.

She turned away from the one who had conjured up these spectres, and throwing herself upon a couch, buried her face in the cushions, and remained in this attitude while Olive answered her and for long moments after; moments that seemed hours to both.

Olive's eyes were full of pity, and her tone was very gentle. Her woman's quick instinct assured her that words of comfort were of no avail in this first moment of bitter awakening. She knew that it were better to say all that she deemed it her duty to say, now, while her hearer was passive; and stepping nearer the couch, she said:

"Dr. Vaughan, who saw you in the company of a man so well known to him that to see a young girl in his society he knew could mean no good, came to me this morning with a brief account of your meeting of last night. He is too good a physiognomist not to have discovered, readily, that you were not such a woman as could receive no contamination from such as Lucian Davlin. He feared for you, believing you to be another victim of his treachery. Your coming to this hotel assured him that you were safe for the time, at least; and this being a subject so delicate that he, a stranger, feared to approach you with it, he desired me to come to you, and, in case his fears were well founded, to save you if I could. My poor, poor child! you have cast yourself upon the protection of a professional gambler; a man whose name has been associated for years with that of a notorious and handsome adventuress. If he has any fear or regard for anything, it is for her; and your very life would be worth little could she know you as her rival. Judge if such a man can have intentions that are honorable, where a young, lovely and unsophisticated girl like yourself is concerned."

She paused here, but Madeline never stirred.

"Come with me," continued Olive, drawing a step nearer the motionless girl; "accept me as your protector, for the present, at least. Believe me, I know what you are suffering now, and near at hand you will find that which will aid you to forget this man."

Madeline slowly raised herself to a sitting posture and turned towards the speaker a face colorless as if dead, but with never a trace of a tear. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, and her lips were compressed, as if she had made, and was strong to keep, some dark resolve.

"What is it that I am to find?" she said, in a low, intense tone.

"A girl, young as you, and once as beautiful," replied Olive, sadly, "who is dying of a broken heart, and her destroyer is Lucian Davlin."

Madeline gazed at her absently for a moment. "I suppose I had ought to hate you," she said, wearily; "you have made my life very black. Lucian Davlin will soon be here,—will you please go?"

"Surely you are going with me?" said Olive, in amaze.

"No."

"You doubt me? Oh, I have not made you feel your danger! You think I am an impostor!"

"No," said the girl, in the same quiet tone; "something here," putting her hand upon her bosom, "tells me that you are sincere. My own heart has abandoned me; it will not let me doubt you, much as I wish to. I cannot thank you for making my heart ache,—please go."

Still with that air of unnatural calm, she arose and walked to the window.

Of the two, Olive Girard was by far the more agitated. "Tell me," she said, in eager entreaty; "oh, tell me, you are not going with him?"

Madeline turned sharply around. "I shall not add myself to the list of his victims," she said, briefly.

And then the two gazed at each other in silence for a moment.

"This is madness," said Olive, at length. "What rash thing do you meditate? I will not leave you to face this man alone; I dare not do it."

Madeline came from the window and stood directly before her. "I am not the weak child you think me. You can do nothing but harm by remaining here. I will meet Lucian Davlin, and part with him in my own way," she said, between her teeth.

Olive saw, in the set face, and stern eye, that she was indeed dealing with a character stubborn as death, and devoid of all fear. She dreaded to leave her thus, but felt assured that she could do nothing else.

"Will you come to me afterward?" she asked. "You have no friends here, you tell me, and you need a friend now. Promise me this and I will go."

"Thank you," said the girl, wearily; "at least I promise to go to no one else; good-by."

Turning away, she resumed her position at the window, and never looked once at Olive after that.

"I will write my address on this card," said Olive. She did so; then turning on the girl a look full of pitying tenderness, said: "I need not tell you to be brave; I should rather bid you be cautious. Remember, your life is worth more than the love and loss of such a man. Put this behind you, and come to me soon, believing that you are not friendless."

She lowered her veil and, casting one more wistful glance at the silent figure by the window, went out and closed the door softly.