The next evening, on her return home, she found Andora hovering in the entrance hall. “I thought you’d like me to put this in your own hand,” Miss Macy whispered significantly, pressing a letter upon Lizzie. “I couldn’t _bear_ to see it lying on the table with the others.” It was Deering’s letter from the steamer. Lizzie blushed to the forehead, but without resenting Andora’s divination. She could not have breathed a word of her bliss, but she was not altogether sorry to have it guessed, and pity for Andora’s destitution yielded to the pleasure of using it as a mirror for her own abundance. DEERING wrote again on reaching New York, a long, fond, dissatisfied letter, vague in its indication of his own projects, specific in the expression of his love. Lizzie brooded over every syllable of it till they formed the undercurrent of all her waking thoughts, and murmured through her midnight dreams; but she would have been happier if they had shed some definite light on the future. That would come, no doubt, when he had had time to look about and get his bearings. She counted up the days that must elapse before she received his next letter, and stole down early to peep at the papers, and learn when the next American mail was due. At length the happy date arrived, and she hurried distractedly through the day’s work, trying to conceal her impatience by the endearments she bestowed upon her pupils. It was easier, in her present mood, to kiss them than to keep them at their grammars. That evening, on Mme. Clopin’s threshold, her heart beat so wildly that she had to lean a moment against the door-post before entering. But on the hall table, where the letters lay, there was none for her. She went over them with a feverish hand, her heart dropping down and down, as she had sometimes fallen down an endless stairway in a dream--the very same stairway up which she had seemed to fly when she climbed the long hill to Deering’s door. Then it suddenly struck her that Andora might have found and secreted her letter, and with a spring she was on the actual stairs and rattling Miss Macy’s door-handle. “You’ve a letter for me, haven’t you?” she panted. Miss Macy, turning from the toilet-table, inclosed her in attenuated arms. “Oh, darling, did you expect one to-day?” “Do give it to me!” Lizzie pleaded with burning eyes. “But I haven’t any! There hasn’t been a sign of a letter for you.” “I know there is. There _must_ be,” Lizzie persisted, stamping her foot. “But, dearest, I’ve _watched_ for you, and there’s been nothing, absolutely nothing.”