Precisely at eleven o’clock he knocked at the door of the house in King-Charles Street, which was almost instantaneously opened for him by the fair hands of Mrs. Puffle herself. “H--sh,” said Mrs. Puffle; “we don’t want the servants to know anything about it.” Mr. Brown, who cared nothing for the servants of the Puffle establishment, and who was becoming perhaps a little weary of the unravelled mystery of the affair, simply bowed and followed the lady into the parlour. “My sister is up stairs,” said Mrs. Puffle, “and we will go to her immediately.” Then she paused, as though she were still struggling with some difficulty;--“I am so sorry to say that Polly is not well.--But she means to see you,” Mrs. Puffle added, as she saw that the editor, over whom they had so far prevailed, made some sign as though he was about to retreat. “She never is very well,” said Mrs. Puffle, “and her work does tell upon her so much. Do you know, Mr. Brown, I think the mind sometimes eats up the body; that is, when it is called upon for such great efforts.” They were now upon the stairs, and Mr. Brown followed the little lady into her drawing-room. There, almost hidden in the depths of a low arm-chair, sat a little wizened woman, not old indeed,--when Mr. Brown came to know her better, he found that she had as yet only counted five-and-twenty summers,--but with that look of mingled youth and age which is so painful to the beholder. Who has not seen it,--the face in which the eye and the brow are young and bright, but the mouth and the chin are old and haggard? See such a one when she sleeps,--when the brightness of the eye is hidden, and all the countenance is full of pain and decay, and then the difference will be known to you between youth with that health which is generally given to it, and youth accompanied by premature decrepitude. “This is my sister-in-law,” said Mrs. Puffle, introducing the two correspondents to each other. The editor looked at the little woman who made some half attempt to rise, and thought that he could see in the brightness of the eye some symptoms of the sauciness which had appeared so very plainly in her letters. And there was a smile too about the mouth, though the lips were thin and the chin poor, which seemed to indicate that the owner of them did in some sort enjoy this unravelling of her riddle,--as though she were saying to herself, “What do you think now of the beautiful young woman who has made you write so many letters, and read so long a manuscript, and come all the way at this hour of the morning to Camden Town?” Mr. Brown shook hands with her, and muttered something to the effect that he was sorry not to see her in better health. “No,” said Josephine de Montmorenci, “I am not very well. I never am. I told you that you had better put up with seeing my sister.”