Madame Montford, pale, thoughtful, and abstracted, sits musing in her parlor. “Between this hope and fear-this remorse of conscience, this struggle to overcome the suspicions of society, I have no peace. I am weary of this slandering-this unforgiving world. And yet it is my own conscience that refuses to forgive me. Go where I will I see the cold finger of scorn pointed at me: I read in every countenance, ‘Madame Montford, you have wronged some one-your guilty conscience betrays you!’ I have sought to atone for my error-to render justice to one my heart tells me I have wronged, yet I cannot shake off the dread burden; and there seems rest for me only in the grave. Ah! there it is. The one error of my life, and the means used to conceal it, may have brought misery upon more heads than one.” She lays her hand upon her heart, and shakes her head sorrowfully. “Yes! something like a death-knell rings in my ears-‘more than one have you sent, unhappy, to the grave.’ Rejected by the one I fancy my own; my very touch scorned; my motives misconstrued-all, perhaps, by-a doubt yet hangs between us-an abandoned stranger. Duty to my conscience has driven me to acts that have betrayed me to society. I cannot shake my guilt from me even for a day; and now society coldly cancels all my claims to its attentions. If I could believe her dead; if I but knew this girl was not the object of all my heart’s unrest, then the wearying doubt would be buried, and my heart might find peace in some remote corner of the earth. Well, well-perhaps I am wasting all this torture on an unworthy object. I should have thought of this sooner, for now foul slander is upon every tongue, and my misery is made thrice painful by my old flatterers. I will make one more effort, then if I fail of getting a certain clue to her, I will remove to some foreign country, shake off these haunting dreams, and be no longer a victim to my own thoughts.” Somewhat relieved, Madame is roused from her reverie by a gentle tap at the door. “I have waited your coming, and am glad to see you;” she says, extending her hand, as a servant, in response to her command, ushers into her presence no less a person than Tom Swiggs. “I have sent for you,” she resumes, motioning him gracefully to a chair, in which she begs he will be seated, “because I feel I can confide in you—” “Anything in my power is at your service, Madame,” modestly interposes Tom, regaining confidence. “I entrusted something of much importance to me, to Mr. Snivel—” “We call him the Hon. Mr. Snivel now, since he has got to be a great politician,” interrupts Tom. “And he not only betrayed my confidence,” pursues Madame Montford, “but retains the amount I paid him, and forgets to render the promised service. You, I am told, can render me a service—”