“Poor child! I fancy it is doubtful what will become of her,” said the first speaker. “Her father is dead, and her mother has married again--married a certain Major Joscelyn, who is very much gone to pieces in all respects. I know the family well, and Mrs. Berrien was talking to me about the Joscelyns--whom she dislikes exceedingly--the other day. Aimée, you see, is her brother’s child, and for that reason she has her with her at present. ‘I found that the Joscelyns were simply making her a drudge,’ she said, ‘and her health was breaking down under it, so I decided to take her for a time at least. Perhaps, when Fanny is married, I may adopt her altogether.’” “She can well afford to do so if Miss Fanny establishes herself in life as well as _that_,” responded the other, glancing significantly across the room. Aimée meanwhile--altogether unconscious of being a subject of discussion--went to the chamber which she shared with her cousin, and, without striking a light, sat down by the open window through which even at night the air came with balmy softness. She felt strangely puzzled, and strongly averse to the service which she had pledged herself to perform; yet the idea of retreating did not for a moment occur to her. She had promised Fanny, and she must perform whatever was exacted from her in fulfillment of that promise. But how much she shrank from this fulfillment it is difficult to say. This impetuous lover, whom Fanny herself was afraid to face, what would he say, what would he do? Would he rage with passion, or be overwhelmed by despair? Aimée decided that she would prefer passion to despair, for she had a most tender heart, and the sight of distress always unnerved her. She pictured to herself the Ariel lying off the bar, with the eager lover pacing her deck, sure that happiness was within his grasp, fancying no doubt that Fanny, like himself, was counting the hours to their time of meeting; and then a picture of the scene in the parlor below--of Fanny gay and enchanting, of Mr. Meredith fascinated and amused--rose before her mental vision. “How can she?” the girl thought. “How can she? To bring a man here just to disappoint him! It is--yes, it is shameful!” As she so sat and so thought, a clock tolled out ten strokes. Soon thereafter the different inmates of the house--being chiefly of middle age and quiet habits--were to be heard exchanging good-night salutations on the staircase and in the hall, several doors closed, and then Aimée heard her aunt’s footsteps approach her chamber. There was no light, and the girl hoped it would pass on--for she had the feeling of a conspirator, and dreaded to be addressed by one whom she felt as if she was betraying--but Mrs. Berrien paused, opened the door and looked in. “Are you asleep, Aimée?” she asked. “Oh, no, Aunt Alice,” replied Aimée’s voice from the window. “I am sitting here.” “What! in the dark, and by an open window! Are you trying to take cold? What is the matter?”