Upon that very same December night that found Mrs. Clifton and Catherine rejoicing over the good news they had heard from their friends, upon that very night Zuleime sat shivering in her room, without fire, food or light. She had given her child its cup of milk, and thanked Heaven that she had it to give, though she herself went hungry. And she had wrapped the babe in her shawl, and sat by the window, singing and rocking her to sleep. The room was intensely cold, she was chilled to the heart, her feet were numb, and almost lifeless. The only warmth in her body seemed to be the bosom at which the child was pressed. The snow was falling fast without, but even through its flakes she saw the lighted windows of the mansion-house glowing through the crimson curtains, and streaming redly across the snow-clad ground. And she sat and thought of the comforts within that parlor. While she sat there thinking, there came a gentle knock at her door. “Who is there?” inquired Zuleime. “It is I, Mrs. Fairfax,” replied the voice of the actress. “Come in, Mrs. Knight.” The actress entered, saying, with a little pardonable tact— “Oh, you are putting your child to sleep in the dark. It is singular some little ones never will go to sleep where there is a light burning. _Is_ she asleep?” “Yes,” replied Zuleime. “Then please put her in bed, my dear, and come down stairs with me. I have something to talk to you about.” Zuleime laid her little girl in bed, and tottering with weakness, from her long fast and the cold, accompanied the actress down stairs. Mrs. Knight opened her own room, and revealed a warm coal fire burning in the grate, and a little supper-table set out, with coffee, French rolls, nice butter, and stewed oysters. She set the cushioned rocking-chair for Zuleime, between the fire and the table, and pushed her gently into the seat, saying— “I have holyday to-night, and for a week from to-night, because the opera troupe are here. And so I thought I would just celebrate its commencement by a supper and a ball for two!” And she placed before her visitor a plate of oysters and a cup of coffee. When the little supper was fairly commenced, Mrs. Knight said, “I did not send for you, only to take coffee with me—I wished to speak to you on a matter of business. I have been wishing some time to do so, but scarcely knew how to do it without wounding or offending you.” She paused. “Ah! are you so considerate? Yet you need not fear—I know _you_ could not think of anything to say which would— “At least, I only mean your good, and if I err, you will forgive me.” “Gentle friend! I am used to all the hardness and vulgarity against which a woman has to break her heart and spirit, in struggling through the rough world. Now think of that. And think whether I can be hurt by anything your kind heart impels you to say. No, I shall be very grateful!”