A month went by, and Arthur during that time never once went out without his brother, never tasted a drop of wine, nor met those companions whom he had begun to deem so social-hearted, and so necessary to his happiness. He seemed to shrink fearfully from the thought of coming in contact with them, and invariably after business hours sought his brother's side, passing his leisure in whatever mode Guly chanced to propose.

His proud will was kept in constant curb, and when he received the stern rebuke of his employer, or the taunt and sneer of those who would have led him their way, he answered nothing, but turned away with swelling heart and silent lips.

Guly noticed that nightly, as they prayed, Arthur's voice grew more earnest, and his manner more humble and contrite; and he began to censure himself for the unjust fears he had entertained on his brother's account, while his heart rose in thankful praises to Him "who doeth all things well," for the happy change.

None knew, save Arthur himself, the cause of it. Since the night when the "ghost," as he called it, first entered his heart, and since the dream of home hovered over his pillow, he had felt as if it might be possibly a visionary counterpart of one of those events which "cast their shadows before," and he had striven right manfully against every impulse which might in any way tend to make himself the fulfiller of it. Often, when the stern reproof, or the sly sneer, had awakened his resentment and called the flush of anger to his cheek, a glimpse into his throbbing heart placed the seal of silence on his lips; for, with a shudder, he beheld the haggard figure, with its burning eyes, pointing ever its skinny finger backward.

It was something which he could not understand, yet which exerted over him an all-powerful influence. He often thought upon it, trying to devise what it could mean, and what could have brought it there within his heart; and the only answer his reflections ever gave him, was that the fore-shadow had risen to warn him from the awful gulf.

Wilkins had of late kept a quiet but steady eye upon the movements and character of the brothers, and, in spite of the usual coldness and indifference of his great heart, he had begun to feel a deep interest in them, and everything pertaining to them. Guly especially, he had learned to feel towards even as a younger brother. Still, with that unaccountable feeling, which sometimes forbids a generous sentiment to betray itself to another, he veiled his earnest friendship under a guise of mere clerkly companionship, rarely giving way to those bursts of tender feeling, which rendered him, in Guly's young eyes, an absolute enigma.

One day, as Arthur was about leaving the store for dinner, Wilkins called him back, and gave him some money to deposit in the bank, which he had to pass on his way to the restaurant.

"We are so busy to-day," remarked the head-clerk, as he gave it to him, "it is just now impossible for me to leave before the bank closes, and you can do this as well as myself."

Arthur bowed, and viewed the bills with a glow of proud pleasure in his breast, at the trust reposed in him, and started away. Guly left his place an instant, and stepped quickly to the door, prompted by a feeling for which he could not account, to look after him; and stood gazing upon his brother's receding figure until lost to sight in the stream of busy life, which flowed through the narrow street.

As he resumed his station, a light and exquisitely beautiful female form glided in at the door, and stopped at Guly's counter. As he bent forward to inquire her wishes, she threw aside the veil, which concealed her features, and revealed to the boy's bewildered gaze the most dazzling, beautiful face he had ever beheld.

She was quite young; apparently had just entered upon her fifteenth year, an age which in the North would be considered only as the dividing step between childhood and girlhood, but which in the South, where woman is much more rapidly developed, is probably the most charming season of female beauty, when the half-burst blossom retains all the purity, freshness, and fragrance of the tender bud. She was slight and delicate in figure, yet beautifully rounded and proportioned; bearing, in every movement, that charming child-like grace, which is so frequently lost when the child merges into the woman. Her complexion was that of a brunette—but beautifully clear; and her cheeks, with their rich color, might well bear that exquisite comparison of somebody's—a rose-leaf laid on ivory. Her hair was of a rich chestnut brown, and having been cut off during severe illness, was now left to its own free grace, and hung in short close curls about her full pure brow.

Her eyes were of the same hue as her hair, large and full, and replete with that dewy, tender expression, when she lifted the long lashes from them, which sends the glance into the depths of the heart. Her mouth was small, and the full lips, like to a "cleft pomegranate," disclosed her polished and regular teeth.

Guly's eye took in the exquisite picture before him at a glance, and the words which were on his lips when he first bent forward remained unspoken, while he looked the glowing admiration which filled his heart. She seemed slightly embarrassed as she met his gaze, and, in a voice of clear richness of tone, she remarked:—

"Mr. G—— is no longer here? I have always been accustomed to seeing him, and have my work ready for disposal."

"I occupy Mr. G——'s place, Miss," replied Guly, with a slight blush upon his young cheek, as he resumed his erect position. "Can I do anything for you?"

"Ah, Miss Blanche! how do you do?" exclaimed Wilkins, getting down from his desk before she could answer Guly's question. "It is a long, long time since we have seen your young face here. What has been the matter?"

"Ah! Monsieur," she replied, in a tone of inexpressible sadness, and addressing him in French, "I have had much trouble in the last two months. I have been greatly bereaved. My poor mother, sir—" she could go no farther, but broke down as she glanced at the black dress, and burst into a fit of silent but bitter weeping.

A shade of sympathetic sorrow passed over Wilkins' face, and with a delicacy of feeling which would not have been expected in him, he stepped around to that side, where she was exposed to the view of the customers and clerks, and stood there as if he would, by the intervention of his huge form, screen her sorrow from the vulgar gaze.

After a few moments Blanche dried her eyes; and with a violent struggle for self-control, seemed to swallow her grief into her heart.

"You must pardon me, Mr. Wilkins, for giving way here. I thought, Monsieur, I could do better; but my grief lies very, very heavy here;" and she laid her hand, with touching grace, upon her heart.

"Ah, Mademoiselle," returned Wilkins, also in French, "I feel deeply for you, believe me. And you are alone now, and have no friends?"

"Oui, Monsieur, I have my blind grandfather, poor grandpapa; he is very feeble and infirm." She paused, as if the subject was one too painful to dwell upon, then drew toward her a little bundle, which she had laid upon the counter, and said: "I have here my broderie. I hope, Monsieur, you have not engaged any one else. I have worked day and night to finish what I had undertaken. I hope they please you."

Wilkins took the little roll, and drew thence several specimens of exquisite and tasteful embroidering, consisting of one or two heavily worked mouchoirs, several collars, some insertion, edging, &c., &c. He examined them with a close and critical eye, then laying them down, with an encouraging smile, said:—

"These are more beautifully done than any we have yet had, Mademoiselle. These, really, command the highest price."

"I am very glad, Monsieur," Blanche replied, quietly.

Wilkins drew a small reference-book from his pocket, and after glancing over its pages a moment or two, he counted out a few pieces of gold from a drawer at his side, and Guly saw that, under pretence of making change, he added to the sum a little from his own purse.

"There, Mademoiselle, that is well earned."

"Here is more than I received last time, Monsieur; and you have had to wait for the work. Are you sure this is right?"

"Quite right. As I before told you, it is better done than any you have given us before. Take these articles, Guly, and put them in the box marked 'French Embroidery.'"

Guly obeyed, and his fingers lingered on the fair work before him, with an unconscious touch of admiration.

"You think you can bring your articles weekly, now, Mademoiselle?"

"I think so, Monsieur Wilkins. I have nothing to occupy my time now, except a few little favors for poor grandpapa."

"Very well. Mr. G. has left, as you see. Henceforth Mr. Pratt will receive your work, and pay you for the same, as he has charge of this department. Let me make you acquainted. Guly, this is Blanche Duverne," said Wilkins, in his brief, peculiar manner.

Blanche held out her small hand, with an air of naÏve and innocent frankness, and Guly took the rosy finger tips, as he bent across the counter, and pressed them to his lips.

It was an act totally unexpected by Blanche, but it was done with such a noble grace by the boy, and with an air of such delicate refinement, while a glow of boyish bashfulness swept over his fine face, that the most fastidious could not have found in it just cause for resentment, much less the guileless and innocent child-woman before him.

As Guly released her hand she looked at him more attentively than she had done before, and said, sweetly, in pure unaccented English—

"I hope we may be very good friends, Guly."

"Amen," said the boy, with a smile.

"And you will sell my work to your choice customers, won't you?"

"Invariably."

"Adieu."

"Adieu, Miss."

She flitted out of the door so like a spirit, that she was gone almost before Guly was aware she had left her seat. He longed to go to the door and look after her, but a sense of timidity withheld him; and having no customers just then he took down the box which contained her work, under pretence of arranging it more nicely, but in reality to look upon the delicate labor of those rosy fingers once again.

Wilkins was watching him, mischievously, from his desk, and Guly looked up, and caught his eye, with a blush and a smile.

"Tell me, Wilkins, who she is."

"A poor girl, and very pretty."

"And friendless?"

"Only her grandpapa, you heard her say."

"Poor thing, she does this for a living."

"For a living? Yes. And it's a hard one she gets, after all."

"You know all about her! What else? Tell me more."

"She is very good and pure."

"May she always be so. Go on."

Wilkins looked at him searchingly for a moment, but the boy met his glance steadily, and the head-clerk withdrew his eye with an air of one who is suddenly made aware of entertaining unjust suspicions; and he went on, with a smile, getting down from his desk, and standing near to Guly meanwhile.

"It would not be to every one, Guly, I would give poor Blanche's history, or what I know of it; but to you I am certain I can do so safely. To begin then at the beginning: She was the daughter of one of the wealthiest bankers in this city, who died several yeas ago insolvent, and left his wife and child destitute. Of course, their former friends cut them, all except a very few; and they took a suite of rooms in the Third Municipality, and removed thither with their few articles of furniture, and their blind and helpless relative. The mother's health began to fail, and after a little while she was unable to do anything toward their support; and all the duties of the household, together with the labor for a livelihood for the three, fell upon little brown-eyed Blanche. She went to work heroically, and turned her accomplishments to profit, and is, as you see, one of the very best brodeurs that can be found. She loved her mother devotedly, and I suppose it almost broke her little heart when she lost her. She has sickened and died within the last two months, as you heard her say. She had all that care upon her young shoulders, beside that of her old grandfather, yet she has neglected neither, and finished her work with it all. Think of it! As you perceive she has an innocent little heart, is a stranger to guile, and is ready to believe every one is what he professes to be. God help her, poor thing!"

"And is that all you know of her, Wilkins?"

"This is all. I know her well; for four years she has brought her work to this spot, and sold it at this counter."

Guly's eye dropped upon that counter almost reverently.

"Where are her relatives, Wilkins?"

"North, I believe. Her father was a poor but talented man when he came here, and his family, though highly estimable at the North, were also poor. He met his wife in some of the high circles, to which his letters admitted him, and they fell in love, and married, though in the face of decided opposition from all her family. Her friends never noticed her afterwards, though he rose, as I told you, to high station and standing; so when he died there was no one to apply to."

"How did you learn all this, Wilkins?"

"She told it to me herself."

"But her Northern friends, they may have grown rich by this time."

"No. She told me her father's family consisted only of his parents and one deformed brother. When he was making a fortune so rapidly here, I believe he received a letter from this brother, stating that he was coming on to try his fortune here, too. But Mr. Duverne, Blanche's father, wrote back to discourage his intentions, for he seemed to think it was too long a journey for one so helpless as he. They never heard from the brother again; for, soon after, Mr. Duverne died, and the state of his affairs became known, and all intercourse between the families ceased."

"And they never knew whether he came here or not?"

"Oh, he of course never came, or they would have heard of him, you know."

"Is Blanche French?"

"By the name, you see she is of French descent; and she speaks the language like a native born Francaise; however, her mother was purely American, and her father never spoke a word of French in all his life. She has acquired it by mingling, no doubt, with the Creoles here."

"You speak it yourself, Mr. Wilkins?"

"Yes; and I acquired it in that way."

"You know where Blanche lives?"

"Yes."

"And visit her sometimes?"

"Occasionally."

"Can I accompany you there some evening, sir? I would like to know her better."

"To be sure you may, Guly; especially, as you are henceforth to be somewhat associated in the business line. As I have told you, Blanche is a noble little girl; I respect her highly; very few know where she lives, and I wouldn't take every one there. You understand?"

"Certainly. I shan't name her residence to any one."

"Very well, then; whenever you say—you alone, remember."

"Thank you, Wilkins; when I can go I will tell you."

"Just so."

Wilkins stepped back to his desk, and Guly still stood arranging the new pieces of embroidery. There was for him a charm about them. Accustomed as he was to seeing such things, he could not get tired of looking at these. They were far more beautiful than any of those which were really French, and had come from over the seas; and from every graceful twig and twining tendril, there looked up at him a pair of soft brown eyes, whose gentle glances went down, and made themselves a home in the boy's pure heart.