In such harassing reflections warring and jarring in her mind, the long hours of the night were passed. She wept, too: the bitterest tears are those that are wrung from shame and sorrow mingled. Many a generous resolve, many a thought of self-devotion and sacrifice rose to her mind; at moments she would have submitted herself to any wound to self-esteem to have obtained her father's kind word, and at others all the indignity of a false position overwhelmed her, and she cried as if her very heart were bursting. Wearied and fevered, she arose and went into the garden. It was one of the brilliant mornings which for a week or ten days in Italy represent the whole season of spring. Although still early, the sun was hot, and the flowers and shrubs, refreshed by the heavy dew, were bursting out into renewed luxuriance in the warm glow. The fountains sparkled, and the birds were singing, and all seemed animated by that joyous spirit which seems the very breath of early morning, all save poor Kate, who, with bent-down head and slow step, loitered along the walks, lost in her gloomiest thoughts. To return home again was the only issue she could see to her difficulties, to share the humble fortunes of her father and sister, away from a world in which she had no pretension to live! And this, too, just when that same world had cast its fascinations round her, just when its blandishments had gained possession of her heart, and made her feel that all without its pale was ignoble and unworthy. No other course seemed, however, to offer itself, and she had just determined on its adoption, when the short, quick step of some one following her made her turn her head. As she did so, her name was pronounced, and Mr. Albert Jekyl, with his hat courteously removed, advanced towards her. “I see with what care Miss Dalton protects the roses of her cheeks,” said he, smiling; “and yet how few there are that know this simple secret.” “You give me a credit I have no claim to, Mr. Jekyl. I have almost forgotten the sight of a rising sun, but this morning I did not feel quite well a headache a sleepless night--” “Perhaps caused by anxiety,” interposed he, quietly. “I wish I had discovered your loss in time, but I only detected that it must be yours when I reached home.” “I don't comprehend you,” said she, with some hesitation. “Is not this yours, Miss Dalton?” said he, producing the bill, which had fallen unseen from her father's letter. “I found it on the floor of the small boudoir, and not paying much attention to it at the time, did not perceive the signature, which would at once have betrayed the ownership.”