always as hard to please as to-day, Henry? He certainly was a little unkind."
"He's always the same, madame," said the man, gloomily. Her words brought vividly before his mind's eye the many instances of his master's unkindness.
"I'm sorry he is not kind to you," said the girl, hypocritically. "And I don't want you to carry this letter because he ordered you. I want you to do it to oblige me, Henry, and it will make me always your friend."
Ah, Henry, one resentful gleam from your eyes, as you stood behind the chair of your tyrant, has given to this slight girl the clue by which to sway you to her will. She was smiling upon him, and the man replied, in gratitude:
"I'll do anything for you, madame."
"Thank you, Henry. I was sure I could trust you. Will you get me some writing material, please?"
Henry crossed to the handsome davenport, and found it locked. But when taking this precaution, Davlin overlooked the fact that Cora's last gift—a little affair intended for the convenience of travelers, being a combined dressing case and writing desk, the dividing compartment of which contained an excellent cabinet photograph of the lady herself, so enshrined as to be the first thing to greet the eyes of whosoever should open the little receptacle—was still accessible.
Failing to open the davenport, Henry turned to this; and pressing upon the spring lock, exposed to the view of Madeline, standing near, the pictured face of Cora. Spite of his grievances, the sense of his duty was strong upon him, and he put himself between the girl and the object of her interest. Not so quickly but that she saw, and understood the movement. Stepping to his side, she put out her hand, saying:
"What an exquisite picture—Madame Cora, is it not, Henry?"
She was looking him full in the eyes, and he answered, staring in astonishment the while: "Yes, miss."
"She is very handsome," mused the girl, as if to herself: "left just before my arrival, I think?" she added, at a venture.
Again her eyes searched his face, and again he gave a surprised assent.
"Do you like her, Henry?" questioned she, intent on her purpose.
"She is just like him," he said, jerking his head grimly, while his voice took again a resentful tone. "She thinks a man who is black has no feelings."
He placed pen, ink and paper on the table as he answered, and then looked to her inquiringly.
"You may wait here while I write, if you will," she said, and took up the pen.
She had brought away from the G—— House, the two cards of her would-be friends, and she now consulted them before she asked.
"No. 52—— street; is that far, Henry?"
"It's a five minutes' walk," he answered. "I can go and come in twenty minutes, allowing time for an answer."
"Very good," she said, abruptly, and wrote rapidly:
Clarence Vaughan.
No. 52—— street.
Sir—Having no other friend at hand, I take you at your word. I need your aid, to rescue me from the power of a bad man. Will you meet me, with a carriage, at the south corner of this block, in one hour, and take me to Mrs. Girard, who has offered me a shelter? You know the danger I wish to escape. Aid me "in the name of your mother."
Madeline "Weir."
This is what she penned, and looking up she asked: "What is the number of this place, Henry?"
"91 Empire block," he replied; "C—— street."
She added this, and then folding and enclosing, addressed it to Clarence Vaughan, M. D., etc.
"There, Henry, take it as quickly as you can; and some day I will try and reward you."
She smiled upon him as she gave him the letter. He took it, bowed low, and hurried away.
She listened until the sound of his footstep could be heard no longer. Then rising quickly, she opened the receptacle that held the portrait of the woman who, though unseen, was still an enemy. Long she gazed upon the pictured face, and when at last she closed the case, springing the lock with a sharp click, she muttered between set teeth:
"I shall know you when I see you, madame."
Crossing to the pistol bracket, she took the little weapon in her hand, and picking up one of the cartridges left by its careless owner, loaded it carefully. Having done this she placed the weapon in her pocket.
She paced to and fro, to and fro; nothing would have been harder for her than to remain quiet then. Her eyes wandered often to the tiny bronze clock on the marble above the grate.
Ten minutes; her letter was delivered, was being answered perhaps;—fifteen; how slowly the moments were going!—twenty; what if he should return, too soon? Instinctively she placed her hand upon the pocket holding the little pistol. Twenty-five minutes; what if her messenger should fail her? And that card had clearly stated "office hours three to five." Twenty-six; oh, how slow, how slow!—twenty-seven; had the clock stopped? no;—twenty-eight—nine—half an hour.
Where was Henry?
She felt a giddiness creeping over her; how close the air was. Her nerves were at their utmost tension; another strain upon the sharply strung chords would overcome her. She felt this vaguely. If she should be baffled now! She could take fresh heart, could nerve herself anew, if aid came to her, but if he should come she feared, in her now half frenzied condition, to be alone, she was so strangely nervous, so weak!
How plainly she saw it, the face of Clarence Vaughan. Oh, it was a good face! When she saw it again she could rest. She had not felt it before, but she did need rest sorely.
Thirty-five minutes—oh, they had been hours to her; weary, weary time!
How many a sad watcher has reckoned the flying moments as creeping hours, while sitting lonely, with heavy eyes, trembling frame, and heart almost bursting with its weight of suspense—waiting.
Forty minutes—and a footstep in the passage! Her heart almost stopped beating. It was Henry.
"I had to wait, as he was busy with a patient," said he, apologetically, handing her the letter she desired.
Madeline tore open the missive with eager fingers, and read:
Miss Madeline W.:
Thank you for your faith in me. I will meet you at the place and time appointed. Do not fail me. Respectfully,
C. Vaughan.
She drew a long breath of relief.
"Thank you, Henry. Now I shall leave this place; promise me that you will not tell your master where I went or how. Will you promise?"
"I will, miss," said the man, earnestly. "Is this all I can do?"
"If you would be my true
