“It is Mrs. Clifdon, pretty Mrs. Clifdon,” said one of a group of gentlemen gathered near, as she passed down the marble steps and left forever the door now closed upon her. “What takes her to Mordaunt’s?” inquired another, staring after her with a rude curiosity, that quickened her steps and made her heart beat with apprehension. “Don’t you remember? It is an old story. The disinherited child of Philip Mordaunt, who ran off with a circus-rider some four or five years ago. Clifdon, you know, handsome Ned Clifdon.” “And has never been forgiven?” “By yon piece of breathing marble? Never. And she was but a giddy spoiled child, too, at the time; only sixteen, more to be pitied than blamed, poor thing.” On she hurried, with faltering steps; avoiding the bright and crowded thoroughfares, to seek the more gloomy and deserted streets; thus, until she paused before a large and gayly ornamented building and opening a side-door, entered, and closed it behind her. Passing up the dark and winding stair-case with a hasty tread, she paused, breathless, before a small room, and through its half open door stood for a few minutes gazing silently. It was a strange scene that she looked upon. The apartment, with its dusky walls and discolored floor, the rude form made to serve the purpose of a chair, the rough table, upon which flared the dim and misshapen lamp—all seemed to speak the abode of neglect and poverty. But tossed upon the floor, the table, and upon the form beside the cracked mirror, lay white and crimson plumes, mock jewels, that flashed with a false glitter beneath the lamp-light, gaudy and bespangled dresses, and lastly, the figure of the actor arrayed in his fanciful yet not unbecoming attire. He was tall, yet somewhat lightly built, and the close jacket of blue and silver, with its fringed and spangled tunic, the buck-skin fitted tightly around his lower limbs, the sandals donned in lieu of the heavy boot, and laced around the slender and well-turned ankle, exhibited to the utmost advantage a wonderful union of strength and beauty. A light-blue cap, with its waving plumes and sparkling ornaments, lay upon the table beside him, but his head was uncovered, and over the hands, upon which his face was bowed, fell the raven and glossy curls, in almost feminine profusion. “Ned!” He started to his feet, and clasped in his own the little hand that had fallen so tremulously upon his shoulder. “Dear Mabel!” She smiled in his face and strove to speak, but in vain, and bowing her face upon the hand she held, she wept, long and bitterly. He looked upon her with a changing countenance, now with an expression of strange, half-womanish tenderness within his deep-blue eye, now, with the deadly white of agony settling around his lips, and the sharp glance of fear wandering to the door and out, as though it would penetrate the dark, still, passage, and when he spoke it was in a voice tremulous with emotion.