“No, I hate him, the absurd imbecile, with his fine boots and plumes, and tragedy airs. He was not to be pitied, for he recovered health, he found a fortune, he won his Marie. His sufferings were nothing; there was no fatal blight on him, and he had time and power to conquer his misfortunes, while I—” Casimer spoke with sudden passion, and pausing abruptly, turned his face away, as if to hide some emotion he was too proud to show. Amy’s heart ached, and her eyes filled, but her voice was sweet and steady, as she said, putting by the book, like one weary of it,— “Are you suffering to-day? Can we do anything for you? Please let us, if we may.” “You give me all I can receive; no one can help my pain yet; but a time will come when something may be done for me; then I will speak.” And, to her great surprise, he rose and left her, without another word. She saw him no more till evening; then he looked excited, played stormily, and would sing in defiance of danger. The trouble in Amy’s face seemed reflected in Helen’s, though not a word had passed between them. She kept her eye on Casimer, with an intentness that worried Amy, and even when he was at the instrument Helen stood near him, as if fascinated, watching the slender hands chase one another up and down the keys with untiring strength and skill. Suddenly she left the room and did not return. Amy was so nervous by that time, she could restrain herself no longer, and slipping out, found her cousin in their chamber, poring over a glove. “Oh, Nell, what is it? You are so odd to-night I can’t understand you. The music excites me, and I’m miserable, and I want to know what has happened,” she said, tearfully. “I’ve found him!” whispered Helen, eagerly, holding up the glove with a gesture of triumph. “Who?” asked Amy, blinded by her tears. “The baron.” “Where?—when?” cried the girl, amazed. “Here, and now.” “Don’t take my breath away; tell me quick, or I shall get hysterical.” “Casimer is Sigismund Palsdorf, and no more a Pole than I am,” was Helen’s answer. Amy dropped in a heap on the floor, not fainting, but so amazed she had neither strength nor breath left. Sitting by her, Helen rapidly went on,— “I had a feeling as if something was wrong, and began to watch. The feeling grew, but I discovered nothing till to-day. It will make you laugh, it was so unromantic. As I looked over uncle’s things when the laundress brought them this afternoon, I found a collar that was not his. It was marked ‘S. P.,’ and I at once felt a great desire to know who owned it. The woman was waiting for her money, and I asked her. ‘Monsieur Pologne,’ she said, for his name is too much for her. She took it into his room, and that was the end of it.” “But it may be another name; the initials only a coincidence,” faltered Amy, looking frightened.