"Pardon me, explanation that I was about to offer you."

but it was not so much confidence as

"Believe me when I say that I do not need it. Knowing that you are Harry Archum, and remembering how highly my father thought of you, I am satisfied that your motives for your present incognito are good, or, at least, innocent."

He looked down on me, gravely smiling. "Trust with out friendship!" said he, musingly,-" well, it is better than friendship without trust."

"Friendship, Mr. Cambur, is generally of slow growth; trust is often intuitive, and springs up in a moment."

"In some cases, friendship is partially the offspring of the will," he replied. "Miss Frost, just now you alluded to your father. You do not know how strongly I was attached to him, nor with what good reason. He it was who-when I sank down, bewildered, speechless, before the mighty tide of art that swept over me on my arrival in Rome; crushed with the sense of my own littleness and feebleness, and wondering that I had ever dared to call myself an artist, he it was who lifted me up and gave me new hope and confidence. He first spoke to me words of kindly, intelligent, discriminating praise. I vowed to myself that I never would forget it, and I never have forgotten it. It so happened that I was in Florence at the time of his death, or I should have been at your side, caring for him as a son, for you as a brother. He went so suddenly, at the last!—I did not even know that he was gone, until you had left Italy. I returned to Rome, to find only a vacant place, where I had always before found ready sympathy, wise counsel, seasonable encouragement, a cordial welcome. And, for his sake, you see, do you not? that I must needs be his daughter's friend, whether she will be mine, or no. My willing service, my faithful regard arc always at her disposal. Whenever she needs them, she has

but to reach out her hand, and take them up. They will be ready for her."

My eyes were fast filling with tears. Seeing them just ready to fall, he gave my hand a gentle, sympathizing pressure, and, with instinctive delicacy, went to join Ruth.

As for me, I sat down and settled accounts with my pride. For it was that which had repelled the artist's confidence. It had haughtily declined to listen to any confi dential communication from Harry Archum which was not spontaneous, but merely forced out by circumstances. In return, he had heaped coals of forbearance and generosity on its head. I need not say that I found no balance in its favor!

In a few moments, Ruth came toward me, with an ap pealing look.

“Mr. Cambur asks if I am ready to sit," said she. "Won't you come?”

The necessary arrangements were quickly made, and the sitting began.

For a time, I sat and watched the twain. They made a pleasing picture, in the artfully arranged lights and shadows of the studio ;—the absorbed and delighted artist, standing at his easel; the beautiful sitter, blushing beneath his intent gaze. I wondered if the opening chapter of a pleasant little romànce might not be shaping itself before my eyes. What more could an artist need-or ask-than to have that surpassingly lovely face always at his side, for inspiration, model, comfort, blessing?

Then, as Ruth grew to be more at ease in her position, and began to respond to the artist's efforts to engage her in conversation, I went and sat down before the "Waiting," letting it sink into my heart. Ah, Francesca! if I could but look forward to my future in just the spirit which softens and beautifies that face!

XXXIII.

THE UNOPENED LETTER.

URING the few weeks past, some of the hitherto disconnected threads of this nar rative have become curiously entangled. It is typical, perhaps, of the way in which lives and characters, apparently the most remote, will be found to have been intimate in relation and reciprocal in influence, when the day of knowing as we are known shall enlighten our souls.

To make you understand it all, I must go back to a certain morning near the end of August. What a morning it was! There had been a shower in the night, and the earth still fair with undimmed summer greenness and glory-seemed as daintily fresh and sweet as a newlywashed babe. The sight stirred Mrs. Prescott's instincts of neatness into renewed activity. Soon after breakfast, I heard her energetic footsteps overhead in the garret, mingled with enlivening sounds of brushing and scrubbing; and the staircase was quickly monopolized by a procession of brooms, dustpans, mops, pails of water, etc., of which Alice acted as the unwilling marshal, A little later, I heard the busy household reformer's voice projected from the garret window toward Mrs. Divine at the well-curb.

"You have no idea, mother, how nasty this garret is! I shouldn't suppose it had had a thorough cleaning out

since the year One. The dust is half an inch thick under the eaves, and there's cobweb enough hanging from the rafters to make a carpet for the floor, if 'twas all spun and Wove!"

"Um!" returned Mrs. Divine, in a tone to indicate that her mind was busy with some other subject, and declined to quit it for the consideration of the one thus brought to her notice.

"For my part," pursued Mrs. Prescott, seeing that no further response was to be hoped for, and with a slight accession of sharpness in her tone, "if there's anything I like, it's to be clean. I can't abide nastiness. I don't mean to wallow in the dirt till I'm buried in it. And that's the worst thing about being buried, to my mind; I'd rather be burnt up, or dissolved in a barrel of aqua fortis."

"Priscilla," remarked Mrs. Divine, mildly, yet not without a certain decision in her tone, "the garret's clean enough for my purpose, just as 'tis; if it ain't for yours, you've got the privilege of scrubbing it till it's suited to your mind. But don't expect me to bother about it; I've got my soap to attend to,-which you use up faster than I can make it. I reckon dirt is only one of the miseries that Eve brought on us by eating the apple, and I don't mean to spend all my strength in fighting that, so I shan't have any to bring to bear on the rest. When the earth gets too filthy for decent folks to live in, perhaps the Lord'll be good enough to send another deluge, and give it a good washing out."

"He's more likely to send a fire," rejoined Mrs. Prescott, grimly." And that reminds me, there's the greatest lot of old, useless trumpery up here that was ever got together; if I had my way, I'd make a bonfire of it. I can't think what you're saving it all for! Do let me clear some of it out!"

Mrs. Divine quickly let go the dripping bucket, and mounted the stairs, in terror for the safety of her cherished

accumulations. Some of that "trumpery," doubtless, was very closely entwined with her heart-strings. Time, while making it vulgar, dingy, and ridiculous to others, had apotheosized it to her sight. Moreover, it was better than a chronological table of her life.

At the foot of the garret stairs she stopped, as if struck by a sudden thought, and called out to me ;-"Miss Frost, if you've a mind to step up garret a minute, I guess I can show you something that'll interest you. There's a whole secretary full of curiosities up there, that brother Horace brought home from sea."

The secretary proved to be a time-battered combination of desk and bureau, such as was in vogue a century ago, minus two claw-feet, half the brass rings that did the duty of modern knobs, and the lid which had been convertible into a writing-table. The top was composed of the oddest little drawers and pigeon-holes; enough, it would seem, hopelessly to confuse the memory of whoever sought to make use of them;-even a ghostly owner (and it must have had more than one) would need all his spiritual attributes to discover in which of them he had deposited his mortal secrets. Altogether, it looked just fit to be the repository of the curious medley stored within it,-shells, corals, uncut gems, coins, medals, buckles, amulets, seeds, weapons, African fetishes, and whatever of rare or curious the deceased captain (who appears to have had a very pretty taste in such matters) had been able to pick up during his lifelong employment, in one capacity or another, in the merchant service. Many an odd or obsolete knickknack, for which a virtuoso would give half his fortune, was here hidden; and likely to remain so till the dryrotted rafters overhead should fall and bury them in their ruins.

I was vainly trying to pick out and comprehend the curiously-recondite stitch of a piece of Fejeean embroidery, while listening to Mrs. Divine's animated rendition of an