Mrs. Raymond's apartment merely contained a fine table, two or three common chairs, a closet, a bed, and a harp--the relic of better and happier days. The uncarpeted floor was almost as white as snow--and certainly no snow could be purer or whiter than the drapery of her unpretending couch. We sat down--I and my beautiful hostess--and entered into earnest conversation. I examined the lady with attention. She had lost none of her former radiant beauty, and I fancied that a shade of melancholy rather enhanced her charms. Her dress was coarse and plain, but very neat, like everything else around her. Never before, in the course of my rather extensive experience, had I beheld a more interesting and fascinating woman; and never shall I forget that day, as we sat together in her little room, with the soft sunlight of a delightful May afternoon pouring in through the windows. "It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody." "My dear friend," said Mrs. Raymond, accompanying her words with a look of the deepest sympathy, "I see that you have met with a great misfortune. Pardon me, if--" "You shall know all," said I; and then I proceeded to make her acquainted with all that had happened to me since the occurrence of the William street tragedy. Of course, I did not omit to give her the full particulars of my fatal affray with Jack Slack, as that accounted for the "great misfortune" to which she had alluded. When I had finished my narration, the lady sighed deeply and said-- "Ah, my friend, we have both been made the victims of cruel misfortune. You see me to-day penniless and destitute; I, formerly so rich, courted and admired. Have you the time and patience to listen to my melancholy story?" I eagerly answered in the affirmative; and Mrs. Raymond spoke as follows:--