DOANE’S EXQUISITE VENGEANCE. One day shortly after Ouida and Nugent had taken up their residence in the slums, Mr. Connors, who had now become a power in directing the political destinies of the country, met Mr. Doane, the editor, in the vicinity of Ouida’s home. “This is a queer place,” said Doane. “It rather surprises me to see you here.” “Not more so than I am to see you in such a locality,” said Mr. Connors. “Oh, we newspaper men go everywhere.” “And we politicians, too; but honestly, what are you doing here?” “Well,” said Doane, rubbing his hands in grim satisfaction, “I don’t mind telling you; a little private vengeance.” “Upon whom?” queried Connors. “Ouida Angelo. You were present when I received that insulting blow on her account?” “Yes, and by heavens, you brought it on yourself.” “Never mind that,” said the editor. “I feel the sting yet, and while I cannot pay her back in kind, I can twist and probe her pride, and I’ll do it, too. She lives in that miserable hovel over there,” pointing to the place. “I am going to visit her.” “You astound me,” said Connors. He himself was bent upon the same mission, yet was not inspired by so ignoble a purpose. Doane continued: “She has become an object almost of public pity. When the haughty creature abandoned her husband, almost at the altar, and began a life of shame with her lover, even rotten New York society rebelled and frowned her down.” “Yes, it is but too true. The world, when once aroused, is cold in its judgment. But I did not know that she had been so frightfully reduced.” “She has lost her fame, and everything,” said Doane. “All,” asked Connors, “her jewels, carriages, works of art?” “Yes, all except the ‘Modern Hercules.’ So far, nothing has induced her to part with that. I have kept track of her affairs, awaiting my opportunity.” “Doane,” appealed Connors, seriously, “I think there is true nobility yet in the character of that woman. Forego your vengeance.” “Not I,” said the vindictive writer. “I am going to tempt her to sell the thing to me.” “This is the very refinement of cruelty,” said Connors, in disgust. “You should have been a Spanish Inquisitor. You would have stood well with Torquemado.” “Wouldn’t you like to share the treat with me?” said Doane. “No,” said Connors, and the men parted, Doane going over in the direction of the place where Ouida lived. The once proud and queenly sculptress sat alone, all pale and haggard, in her humble, ill-furnished abode, a prey to emotions that scorched her soul.