“More discreet and more fortunate than I,” said she, with a very peculiar smile, “since this letter which I hold here, and which bore my address, I now perceive was for you, and this I have not read merely once or twice, but fully a dozen times; in truth, I believe I could repeat it, word for word, if the task were required of me.” What has become of Mr. Hankes's soft and gentle manner? Where are his bland looks, his air of courtesy and kindness, his voice so full of sweetness and deference? Why, the man seems transfixed, his eyeballs are staring wildly, and he actually clutches, not takes, the letter from her hands. “Why, the first words might have undeceived you,” cried he, rudely. “Your name is not Simpson Hankes.” “No, sir; but it is Sybella, and the writer begins 'Dear S.,'--a liberty, I own, I felt it, but one which I fancied my position was supposed to permit. Pray read on, sir, and you will see that there was matter enough to puzzle finer faculties than mine.” Perhaps the tone in which she spoke these words was intentionally triumphant; perhaps Mr. Hankes attributed this significance to them causelessly; at all events, he started and stared at her for above a minute steadfastly, he then addressed himself suddenly to the letter. “Gracious heavens! what a terrible blunder!” exclaimed he, when he had finished the reading. “A great mistake, certainly, sir,” said she, calmly. “But still one of which you are incapable to take advantage, Miss Kellett,” said he, with eagerness. “Is it to the girl who is to be got rid of, sir, you address this speech? Is it to her whose trustfulness has been made the instrument to deceive others and lure them to their ruin? Nay, Mr. Hankes, your estimate of my forbearance is, indeed, too high.” “But what would you do, young lady?”