He sat down under the gas-light to read it. The sight of the hand-writing seemed to affect him at once. His large, dark eyes flashed over the letter, and he turned it quickly, and looked at the signature; a most unutterable expression passed over his face, like that of a man who is in danger of giving away to some violent emotion; and then, apparently by a great effort of self-constraint, he set himself carefully to reading the letter. He read it over two or three times, folded it up, and handed it back to me without any remark, and then sat leaning forward on the table with his face shaded with his hand. "My cousin is a most uncommon character," I said; "and, as you will observe by this letter, has a good deal of ability as a writer." "I am acquainted with her," he said, briefly, making a sudden movement with his hand. "Indeed? Where did you know her?" "Years ago," he said, briefly. "I taught the academy in her village, and she was one of my scholars. I know the character of her mind." There was a dry brevity in all this, of a man who is afraid that he shall express more than he means to. Said I, "I showed this letter to you because I thought you had more influence in the press than I have; and if you are acquainted with her, so much the better, as you can judge whether she can gain any employment here which would make it worth her while to come and try. I have always had an impression that she had very fine mental powers." "There is no doubt about that," he said, hurriedly. "She is an exceptional woman." He rose up, and took the letter from me. "If you will allow me to retain this a while," he said, "I will see what I can do; but just now I have some writing to finish. I will speak to you about it to-morrow." That evening, I introduced the subject to my friend, Ida Van Arsdel, and gave her a sketch of Caroline's life-history. She entered into it with the warmest interest, and was enthusiastic in her desire that the plan might succeed. "I hope that she will come to New York," she said, "so that we can make her acquaintance. Don't, pray, fail to let me know, Mr. Henderson, if she should be here, that I may call on her." CHAPTER XXVII. EASTER LILIES. The next afternoon Jim and I kept our appointment with the Van Arsdel's. We found one of the parlors transformed to a perfect bower of floral decorations. Stars and wreaths and crosses and crowns were either just finished or in process of rapid construction under fairy fingers. When I came in, Eva and Alice were busy on a gigantic cross, to be made entirely of lilies of the valley, of which some bushels were lying around on the carpet. Ida had joined the service, and was kneeling on the floor tying up the flowers in bunches to offer them to Eva. "You see, Mr. Henderson, the difference between modern religion and the primitive Christians," she said. "Their cross was rough wood and hard nails; ours is lilies and roses made up in fashionable drawing-rooms."