family union, domestic happiness. Many a time, when going out to look for work, she had walked quite around the square to get in front of the mansion, and satisfy her soul with the architectural beauty and elegance of the edifice, as it stood elevated by a flight of terraces far above the street, and commanding for many miles the mighty course of the river. Often in the autumn weather, had she walked under this southern wall, and even in the midst of her deep distresses, looked up in childish longing at the splendid autumnal flowers, trailing luxuriantly over the iron railing. Why did this place interest her so? Not because it was a palace-home, in such strong contrast to her own poor dwelling—not because she passed it almost every day—not because its magnificent grounds were ever before her sight from her own poor room. Ah, no! But because there was a rural character, and a fine, old, ancestral look about the place, that reminded her of her dear, lost home. Everything connected with the premises interested her, even that capacious family carriage, with its round bodied, gray coach horses, and its fat coachman, which appeared every afternoon at a certain hour to take the family out to drive. She did not care to inquire who lived there. One day, when walking in front of the house on the other street, she had seen a lady in deep mourning come out and get in the carriage. She had time to see that the lady appeared bowed in grief, but possessed so sweet and benevolent a face, that she was encouraged to call and ask for work. So the next day she entered the beautiful grounds, and ascended the stone steps that led flight by flight up the rising terraces until she reached the Grecian portico and rang the bell. The door was opened by a man servant, to whom she communicated her business. He called a waiting-woman, who came, and after hearing what the visitor wanted, explained civilly enough that all their needle-work was done by a young person, who lived companion to her mistress, who was too infirm to see strangers. Zuleime never tried there again. But the sweet, sorrowful face of the lady haunted her, and she gazed from her poor window upon the magnificent pleasure-grounds with more of interest than ever. Truly the world _is_ “full of paper walls.” How little Zuleime surmised that the mourner in the palace sorrowed over the very same bereavement that had laid her own life waste—that the fair-haired, tender-eyed lady, whose grief-worn countenance haunted her so, was the mother of her lost Frank; that the proud mansion-house, in the midst of its pleasure-grounds, was the rightful inheritance of the poor babe that rested on her wasted bosom. How little did the childless and desolate recluse of the palace guess that her lost son’s widow sat pining, starving so near her! The world is full of paper walls, but fate makes them firmer, stronger, more indestructible than adamant.