It is difficult to say what the deserted and heart-sickened girl proposed doing when Dudley did see her. She had no definite idea, no realization of aught save fevered suffering; but, if she could only see him once more, hear his voice, feel his arm about her aching form, it seemed as if all would be well again. But time stole slowly on, and no Dudley came: she started at the approach of strangers, expecting the familiar face of her betrayer. She escaped the impertinent stare of servants by going to the window, and looking down the thronged streets until her eyes were dim with tears. The noise of life around fell without a meaning upon her ear—it seemed a continual roar like a senseless rush of waters. She still stood by the window as evening came, and the shades of night fell upon the street, and saw the crowd thin, and the lights twinkle from post and store—still no Dudley came. The servants treated her so rudely, that, at last, she was forced to go; and fearing he might come yet and not find her, for more than an hour she lingered upon the street, in front of the wide flight of steps that led to the hotel. It was now quite dark, and Mary still hung about the steps, when a man handsomely dressed came down them—passed, looking at her as the lamp-light fell upon her pale face, then turned and asked in a low tone if she wished to see any one. Thinking the questioner might be from Dudley, she answered quickly— “Yes—I want to see Dudley Fletcher.” “Ah! yes, yes, you will scarcely find him here.” “Where can I find him, sir?” “That is easier asked than answered, my little maiden, unless you know something before hand.” “I don’t know—I came into town to-day. I wish to see him. Can’t you tell me where to go?” “I will go with you, little one,” answered the man, looking uneasily at the lights around. “Come, I will take you where you can send for him—come with me.” He walked hastily on, and Mary followed: for some time he continued a few paces before her, but turning down a narrow street in which there were no gas-lamps, he put her arm in his, and said— “Now, my little girl, tell me all about it. Where did you come from, and what is it about Dudley Fletcher?” “I came from Un-a-ka, sir—and I wish to see him.” “A little love-affair now—eh! You’re his little sweetheart?” To this Mary making no reply, her companion withdrew her arm, and placed his own around her. Frightened at this, she shrunk away, and, as he persisted, she suddenly sunk to the ground, and burst into tears. Had there been sufficient light, a very puzzled expression might have been seen upon the face of the gentleman as he lifted her from the pavement. “Come,” he said, “don’t cry. I’ll not offend you again—where shall I take you?” “To Dudley Fletcher,” she sobbed out. “Only show me his house, and then leave me.” “Why, yes—he lives with his Aunt, Mrs. Hays; but I’ll take you there, so do not cry.”