At this moment the child's nurse, a pretty bright-eyed young coquette, hurried toward the group, accompanied by a companion of the same class; and as she approached and seized the handles of the carriage, Mrs. Orme turned away. The hemorrhage was not copious, but steady, and lowering her thick veil, she endeavoured to stanch its flow. Her handkerchief, already damp from contact with the wet hat, soon became saturated, and she was obliged to substitute the end of her lace mantle. Fortunately Mrs. Waul, impatiently watching for her return, caught a glimpse of the yet distant figure and hastened to meet her. "Are you crying? What is the matter?" "My lungs are bleeding; lend me a handkerchief. Try and find a carriage." "What caused it? Something must have happened?" "Don't worry me now. Only help me to get home." Screened both by veils and parasols, the two had almost gained the street, when they met a trio of gentlemen. One asked in unmistakable New-England English: "Laurance, where is your father?" And a voice which had once epitomized for Minnie Merle the "music of the spheres," answered in mellow tones: "He has been in London, but goes very soon to Italy." Mrs. Waul felt a trembling hand laid on her arm, and turned anxiously to her companion. "Give me time. My strength fails me. I can't walk so fast." The excitement of an hour had overthrown the slow work of weeks; and after many days the physicians peremptorily ordered her away from Paris. "Home! Let us go home. You have not been yourself since we reached this city. In New York you will get strong." As Mrs. Waul spoke she stroked one of the invalid's thin hands, that hung listlessly over the side of the sofa. "I think Phoebe is right. America would cure you," added the grey-haired man, whose heart was yearning for his native land. Alluring, seductive as the Siren song that floated across Sicilian waves, was the memory of her fair young daughter to this suffering weary mother; and at the thought of clasping Regina in her arms, of feeling her tender velvet lips once more on her cheek, the lonely heart of the desolate woman throbbed fiercely. Her sands of life seamed ebbing fast,--the end might not be distant; who could tell? Why not go back--give up the chase for the empty shadow of a name--gather her baby to her bosom, and die, finding under an humble cenotaph the peace that this world denied her? An intolerable yearning for the sight of her child, for the sound of her voice, broke over her like some irresistible wave bearing away the vehement protests of policy, the sterner barriers of vindictive purpose, and with a long shivering moan she clasped her hands and shut her eyes.