In the afternoon we paid Miss Sullivan a visit. It was the first time I had met her since that strange night of watching at Moreland villa; and I confess that I could not meet her without an inward shudder of abhorrence. Unbounded as was my respect and confidence for Mr. Burton, I did think that he had erred in his conclusions as to the character of this woman; or else that he concealed from me his real opinions, for some purpose to be explained at the proper time. If he still had suspicions, it was evident that he had kept them from their object as skillfully as from me, for I saw, by her manner of receiving him, that she regarded him as a friend. Notwithstanding I had been informed of her rapidly-failing health, I was shocked at the change in Miss Sullivan since I had seen her. It was with an effort that she rose from her easy-chair at our approach; the fullness had all wasted from her naturally queenly figure; her cheeks were hollow, and aflame with the fire of fever; while those black eyes, which had ever seemed to smolder above unfathomable depths of volcanic passion, now almost blazed with light. Something like a smile flitted across her face when she saw my companion, but smiles were too strange there to feel at home, and it vanished as soon as seen. I do not think she liked me any better than I did her; each recoiled from the other instinctively; she would not have spoken to me had I come alone; but out of concession to the presence of her friend, she bowed to me and asked me to be seated. A little child in the room ran to Mr. Burton, as if expecting the package of bon-bons which he took from his pocket; but, as he became engaged in conversation with Leesy, I coaxed her over to me, where she was soon sitting on my knee. She was a pretty little girl, about three years old, in whose chubby little features I could no longer trace any resemblance to her "aunt." She prattled after the fashion of children, and in listening to her, I lost a remark or two of Mr. Barton's; but soon had my attention aroused by hearing Miss Sullivan exclaim, "Going away! For how long?" "Three months, at least." Her hands sunk in her lap, and she became pale and agitated. "It is presumptuous in me to dare to be sorry; I am nothing to you; but you are much to me. I don't know how we shall get along without you." "Don't be uneasy about that, my child. I shall make arrangements with this same person who boards you now to keep you until my return, and, if you should fall sick, to take good care of you." "You are far too good," she responded, tremulously. "You will have the blessing of the friendless. I only wish it had the power to bring you good luck on your journey." "Perhaps it will," he said, with a smile. "I have a great deal of faith in such blessings. But, Leesy, I think you can assist my journey in even a more tangible way than that." She looked at him inquiringly. "I want you to tell me all and every thing you know about the father of little Nora."