Guly's attack had not been a severe one, and he was once more performing his usual duties.

One day as he sat writing, the dwarf with a chuckle made his way to his side, and stood there on his crooked legs panting heavily.

"Hih, hih, Monsieur, God spare you yet? God spares the good. Long time, Monsieur, since I saw you."

"Long time, indeed, Richard; I scarcely knew what had become of you; I am glad to see you among the living."

"Mean that, Monsieur?"

"Every word of it."

"Miss me, Monsieur?"

"Truly I have."

"Good!"

"And now where have you kept yourself so long, Richard?"

"In one little hovel down town; I no put my nose out de door, fear dey chuck me into ze ground. Bury folks dis summer sometimes all warm and limber. I want to live till I'm dead, so I keep down. Life's as sweet to me as others, though I am misshapen, and lame, and poor, and miserable to look upon. Hih, hih, Monsieur, yes, life is sweet."

"And how come you to be out to-day?"

"I strolled out for one walk, hih, hih, one walk for the health of my crutches and myself; and as I passed along, some one give me this note for you, hih, hih, Monsieur. Goodbye! I must be going, or the undertaker will have me stuck two feet in the ground before I get back. Goodbye. Take care of yourself, hih!"

"Goodbye, Richard."

"Monsieur, you remember what you told me one day, long time ago?"

"What about, Richard?"

"About loving one another. Hih, hih, you forget?"

"No, Richard, never forgotten."

"Mean it yet?"

"Yes, in my heart I do."

"Hih, that's good—adieu!"

Turning up his one eye at Guly to give a parting glance the dwarf swung himself away, and the clatter of his crutches on the pavement came back with a mournful echo to the boy's ear.

Guly proceeded to read the note which had been handed him. It was simply an invitation for him to come to a certain number in an up-town street, and though neatly written, bore neither date nor signature.

Concluding it was merely a notice asking his attendance on some person sick, he having frequently performed such offices during the summer, at the hour designated Guly turned his steps toward the stated spot. It was a large house he found, standing somewhat back from the street, and presuming that it might be one of those wealthy homes which the devastating scourge had rendered desolate, leaving perhaps, one lonely sufferer, he advanced up the steps and gave the bell a gentle ring; a servant opened the door and ushered him into the drawing-room. Two ladies rose to greet him. One he recognized as the donor of his New Year's gift, and the other, could it be—his own brown-eyed Blanche? Guly felt a wild thrill of joy sweep through his heart, as Blanche, grown, it was true, more womanly than when he saw her last, came forward with her white hand extended to greet him. Oh, how annihilated did all the past, in that one wild moment, become! and as he bent his lips to that loved hand, and his brown hair swept forward over his pale temples, shutting out the bright scene around him, he seemed, for the instant, once more sitting at the little table in the humble cottage of the brodeuse, listening to the trembling voice of the blind grandfather, and threading needles for Blanche.

"This," said the young girl, in her sweet musical voice, as Guly raised his head, "is our mutual friend, Mrs. Belmont; your acquaintanceship, I believe, however, dates from long ago."

Guly expressed his pleasure at the opportunity afforded of at last acknowledging his New Year's gift; and in a few moments they were seated together a happy trio, with the ease and cheerfulness of old friends talking over the events of the past. Mrs. Belmont explained, that she had met Blanche one day in the cemetery, kneeling by her grandfather's grave, just as she was on the eve of starting away on a long journey. That, struck by her resemblance to her mother, she had addressed her, and soon gleaned her whole history; that then she had adopted her to her childless heart as her own, and hurried her away with her, not having time to allow her to communicate the change to any of her friends; hence the long and hitherto unexplained mystery and silence which had so distressed and harassed Guly. They had returned but a few evenings before, and to-day, Blanche, happening to catch sight of her old acquaintance the dwarf, in the street, had seized that opportunity of communicating to him their arrival, and treating him, she hoped, to a joyful surprise.

It was late before Guly parted from his kind friends, and when he did, it was with a sigh of regret for his own fate, though he could not help rejoicing in his generous heart at Blanche's good fortune. As the pretty and innocent brodeuse, he had hoped to win and wear her as his own; but as the adopted daughter of one of the wealthiest ladies in the Crescent City, accomplished, rich, polished, and refined, this Blanche he dared not, could not hope to win. It was a height to which he, a poor salaried clerk, could never aspire.

With a heavy heart he wended his way through the star-lit streets, dreaming of the days of the blind grandsire, and the little work-table at which he used to thread needles for Blanche, and wondering if those times ever would return.