And Mr. Osgood would have started at once for Hendrik, where he was not personally known to any one, to procure tidings of Miss Wimple and allay the anxiety of Mrs. Morris, had Madeline not found, that very day, her name in the _Herald's_ list of letters waiting to be called for in the New York Post-Office. That letter was, indeed, for Madeline, and its contents were as follows:-- "To Miss MADELINE SPLURGE,--Miss Wimple, of Hendrik, is very ill, and poor, and friendless. It has been suggested to the writer of this that you can help her. If you can, and will, there is no time to lose. A FRIEND." The "friend" was Simon Blount. Ever since the Athenæum was closed, he had hung anxiously about the place, frequently dropping in upon the neighbors to ask--quite by-the-byishly, and by chance, it seemed to them--after the health of Miss Wimple; and sometimes he waylaid the little servant, as she passed to and fro between the bookstore and the doctor's residence, and plied her with questions. On such occasions he was sure to make the little maid the depository of certain silver secrets, which forthwith she revealed to Miss Wimple in the shape of whole basketfuls of comfortable stuff, "from the Doctor." Adelaide had given the hint for this letter. Calling at the Athenæum one day, about a fortnight after Madeline's departure, her quick eye caught sight of a bit of paper lying on the counter, whereon was freshly written, "Madeline Splurge." Miss Wimple had been entering some trifling charge in the course of her small book-keeping, and, still dallying with the pen, a passing thought, less idle than anxious, had traced the name. On that slight foundation Adelaide had built a happy guess, though Simon knew it not,--and though he accepted her suggestion, it amazed him. Let us lift the curtain now, on the last, an extraordinary, _tableau_. In the Wimple nest a strange company are met at the bidding of Madeline Splurge, who couches a flashing lance for the life and the honor of her benefactress. Proudly, condescendingly, haughtily superior to the least sparing of herself,--as one who stooped at the bidding of Duty,--she had told her story, from first to last, omitting nothing; with head erect, pale lips, and flashing eyes,--with a passing flush, perhaps, at the more shameful passages, but with no faltering, no dodging, no self-excusing, no beseeching,--scornfully when she spoke of home, and the beginning of the end,--redly, hatefully, wickedly dangerous, when Philip Withers came on the scene,--with tremulous lips and the low tones of Gratitude's most moving eloquence for the story of Miss Wimple and her sublimely simple sacrifice,--modestly and with grateful deference, at the mention of Mr. Osgood and his rare chivalry. Then, taking from her bosom a small morocco pocket-book, and from the pocket-book a card, she said,--