Ralph Allen and Emmett Harlow were there reading. Mrs. Severn was at the window with a bit of sewing--a melancholy black figure with smileless lips and pallid cheeks, yet beautiful in a strange, haunting fashion that had tempted the young artist to ask her to set to him as “Niobe.” She had refused gently but firmly, and their plan for winning her into the outside world had failed. She never crossed the threshold of her home. She was breaking her heart in silent grief for the dead. “Where is Professor Doepkin? I wish to thank him for his bravery last night,” Italy said abruptly, and Emmett answered lightly: “Pray do not attempt anything so rash. The professor is a very modest man--really bashful, I think--and he would be overwhelmed with confusion if you applauded his conduct last night.” “I think you are jesting with me,” said the girl. “It would seem most ungrateful in me not to express my gratitude to this hero,” and her dark eyes kindled so fervently that Emmett sighed to himself: “I wish I stood in the hero’s shoes. But never mind, my boy, you have done something to deserve her gratitude, after all, and some day she will know it and appreciate it, although it can never win for you that treasure--her love.” “I wish very much to see him!” cried Italy almost yearningly. “He is asleep, Italy, exhausted by his efforts last night,” said Ralph; and Emmett chimed in: “If you are in a hurry to thank him, you may write a little note, for, really, I do not believe he will be willing to present himself before you for a week or so, as his personal appearance was seriously injured by getting his hair and whiskers singed last night. The handsome professor is very proud of his whiskers, and very likely he will not be visible until they grow again.” “I fancy that he would be quite as handsome without his whiskers as with them,” Italy replied, with so significant a tone and glance that Emmett started, colored, and exclaimed: “What do you mean?” “Oh--nothing,” she answered, sitting down and taking up a newspaper; while Mrs. Severn said to her softly: “The professor did sustain some painful burns on his hands, and his face is somewhat blistered, too. So he is keeping his room very quietly to-day--I think he quite understands all your gratitude without your expressing it.” Italy thanked her with a smile, and just then Ralph Allen spoke: “I am reading one of the most terrible tragedies ever printed or enacted.” “The world is full of tragedies,” said Emmett Harlow. “What is this one, Ralph?” “It is a story of love and insanity,” replied Ralph, and every one shuddered, while Mrs. Severn cried out eagerly: “Read it, Mr. Allen.” “It is too long--several columns of the New York _World_--so I will tell it to you in my own words. But it will sound very shocking to you ladies, for it is the story of one girl who murdered another one that she loved.” “One that she loved--how could that be?” cried Emmett. And Ralph answered: