“I have just returned from a long sea voyage, a voyage of many months.” “Ah! And to think Miss Fronde never mentioned your name to me! But then some young ladies are so reserved,” said Mrs. Brown meditatively. “Yes, and she among the most reserved. I expected to find her in Washington, but it appears that she has left the city. Can you tell me where she has gone?” “Certainly, sir. She has gone to her own country seat in Maryland—Hobgoblin House, I think they call it. But I will tell you who can give you exact information—Lawyer Merritt.” “Humph! He was a great friend of Miss Fronde, I believe?” “Oh, yes, sir; a very great friend indeed.” “And a frequent visitor?” “Oh, yes, sir; of course. He had been her guardian and trustee, and he managed all her business for her. But, of course, sir, if you are engaged to the young lady, you know more about these matters than I do,” Mrs. Brown added. “Yes, I did know, but I have been away so long. Many changes may take place in five months,” Hanson said, very gravely. Mrs. Brown broke into a merry little laugh, exclaiming: “Oh! I see just how it is with you. You are jealous of Miss Fronde’s old guardian. Why, sir, you might as well be jealous of her great-grandfather, if she had one.” Hanson took no notice of this innocent raillery, but inquired: “Did Miss Fronde go alone to Goblin Hall?” “No, sir.” “Who went with her?” demanded Hanson, turning hot and cold at the thought of Harcourt as her possible companion. “Not Mr. Merritt, certainly,” slyly replied the janitress. “Who, then? Who, then?” eagerly demanded Hanson. “A much younger and more attractive companion, of whom the young lady is excessively fond,” Mrs. Brown replied, smiling mischievously. “Who was he?” demanded Hanson, rising from his chair in excitement. “Who said ‘he’? I didn’t. There was no ‘he’ in the case. What are you thinking of, sir?” “Who went with Miss Fronde to Goblin Hall?” “A little girl; her adopted child.” “Oh!” exclaimed Hanson, dropping back on his seat in a state of collapse. “Who did you think had gone with her, sir?” merrily inquired the janitress. “I did not know what to think. So she has adopted a child, has she?” “Oh, yes, sir; a bright, quaint, interesting little girl of about five years of age.” “Whose child was it? How came Miss Fronde to adopt it?” “It was the child of a poor, friendless and destitute young widow, who died of consumption here about two weeks ago. Oh, I must tell you all about that poor woman and her child, and what an angel of mercy Miss Fronde was to them.” Hanson assented, not because he was in the very least degree interested in the objects of Roma’s benevolence, but because in hearing them he should hear more of her. “They occupied a room in the rear of this upper floor—one of the cheapest rooms in the building. There are no registers up as high as this. You see, sir. I have an open grate.” “Well, it is pleasanter,” said Hanson.