Her attitudes were the perfection of grace--apparently, too, of unstudied grace, which is the mark of the highest art in posing. She sat in a purple velvet easy-chair, whose trying color set off her fine complexion perfectly. Her voice was low and well modulated, but it had no sympathetic chords; and therefore I could not call it musical or pleasing. She thanked me in very exaggerated terms for having responded to her appeal. I exclaimed, rather impulsively, in reply-- "I expected to find the author of that pathetic letter in great distress, and came, hoping to relieve; but I cannot be of any service here." I glanced around the luxuriously appointed room, and then let my eyes rest on her elaborate costume. She smiled, "You are young, and have not yet learned that rags and poverty seldom go hand in hand with the bitterest experiences of life." "That is the only kind of trouble I am sufficiently experienced to meddle with. For imaginary or abstract woe you should seek some older helper. I would suggest Mrs. Flaxman. She has more patience with refined mourners than I." "Mrs. Flaxman could do me no good." Tears stood in her eyes, making them more beautiful than ever, and quite softening my heart. "Won't you lay aside some of your wraps? I shall feel then as if you will not desert me at any moment. The room is warm, and they are only an incumbrance." I complied, and removed my hat and fur cloak, which were beginning to make me uncomfortably warm. She wheeled another easy-chair and bade me take that; my eyes, grown suddenly keen, took in the fact that the velvet covering was suited to my complexion. "What artistic taste you must have when you are so fastidious about harmony in colors," I said, admiringly. "One might as well get all the possible consolation out of things. The time for enjoying them is short, and very uncertain." She drew a low ottoman and sat down close to me. "I have a long, sad story to tell you, and I want to be within touch of your hand. You will perhaps be too hard on me." She sat, her face turned partly from me, gazing intently into the fire. Perhaps she had a natural dread of going over a chapter in her life she might wish had never been written. Meanwhile the wonder kept growing on me why this exquisite woman should come to me for sympathy. A feeling of pride, too, began swelling my heart to think that I could be of use to others than the hungry and naked, while I thought of the surprising account I should have to give at the dinner-table that evening, of my adventure. My self-complacency was destined to a rude shock. She turned to me suddenly, and asked, "How old would you take me to be?" I looked my surprise, no doubt, but began directly to examine critically the face before me. "I want you to tell me the truth. We don't value flattery from our own sex; at least, I do not."