Smiling at her enthusiasm, and promising to gratify her desire, the publisher took leave, and the very next day sent her the magazine. How gladly, how happily the young heart beat as her eager eyes devoured the column of reviews, and at last fell on "The Fatal Roses," her own romantic and high-flown novel, over whose non-success she had shed such bitter, burning tears. But they were tears of joy that glittered on her lashes now, as she went eagerly over the two full columns that had been given to "The Fatal Roses" by one who signed the, to Maud, startling name of "Una." "Una!" she cried out, wildly, and ran to seek Eliot, who was in the library with her intended husband. "Eliot! oh, Eliot, look! Our own darling Una!" she exclaimed, wildly, pointing with her taper finger at the startling name. Scarcely less agitated than herself, he took the review and read it hurriedly, then passed it to Carmontelle. "Can it be my Una?" he exclaimed, pale and agitated, his heart beating wildly. But the face of Pierre Carmontelle looked calm and grave. "Dear Eliot, dear Maud, do not give yourself up too ardently to hope," he said. "This may prove but a coincidence. The name may have been chosen as a _nom de plume_ by the writer." "My publisher promised to find out the name of the critic, if possible," Maud said; and to him Eliot went at once in a fever of anxiety. Mr. Dudley could not give him any satisfaction. He had written to the New York publisher, asking for information, but had not yet received his reply. As soon as it came, he would be happy to lay his letter before Miss Van Zandt and her brother. It was almost a week before the reply came, and Mr. Dudley forwarded it at once to Maud. The New York publisher wrote that he was unacquainted with his able critic, save by the name of Una. All his business with her was transacted through a Boston banker, whose name he gave, and whom the Van Zandts knew as the head of one of the most influential banks in the city. "She is here, then, in this very city, my lost Una--so near and 'yet so far!'" groaned Eliot. "But I shall go at once to Mr. Chesterton, with whom I have long had a friendly acquaintance." He went and elicited simply nothing. The great banker would give him no information. "I am not at liberty to speak one word on the subject, although I would gladly oblige you, Van Zandt, were it in my power!" he cried, affably. "At least tell me if Una is young, and if it is a real name, or a _nom de plume_," pleaded Eliot. "I regret that I am not at liberty to answer your questions," repeated courteous Mr. Chesterton. Baffled, but almost convinced by all this mystery that Maud's friendly critic was none other than his lovely, lost Una, Eliot went away in despair, and found a comforter in Carmontelle. "Leave it to me, Eliot, and I will find out all about the little runaway," he said, confidently.