At that instant a strong hand caught her by the wrist, and a friendly voice exclaimed-- “Miss Clinton! Miss Clinton!” She fell back against the parapet of the bridge, and the voice changed its tone for one of horror and surprise, and it said-- “Good heaven! what is the matter with you? how deadly white you are! What has happened?--where are you going?” “To die!--to die!”--she murmured, hoarsely, but faintly. “Hush! hush! my dear friend,” said he who stayed her, in a soft and slightly reproving tone, and added--“calm yourself, I entreat you; do not speak for a minute or so; collect your thoughts, and then turn your eyes on me. I am a friend. I have a right to that title, and you will acknowledge it presently. I claim to aid you in affliction or trial. You will not, I am sure, Miss Clinton, refuse consolation or help in need from Harry Vivian.” Lotte uttered a faint, hysteric cry; she clutched his arm, and bowed her head upon his breast. She knew he had the power to help her; she knew he would. As she clung to him, he felt her frame tremble and quiver as though she had been smitten with an ague, and her hot tears fell fast upon the hand which held hers, and pressed it re-assuringly. He let her weep. In a few minutes, he whispered-- “We will not stay here, Lotte. It is chill and cold, and we excite attention from the passers-by.” He conducted her from the bridge but a few steps only, for she was nearly powerless, and unable longer to continue the struggle without fatigue. He quickly perceived it, and had some notion of the cause; so he said-- “I am so glad I have found you at last. I have made many efforts, since the night of the fire, to discover you, but in vain. Not alone to satisfy my own anxiety respecting you, but to allay the apprehensions of your friend. Miss Wilton, to whom you were so kind in her hour of bitter trial. Ah, Lotte! her misery is all past, her future life promises to be one of supreme happiness, if wealth and station can ensure it. Come to her now: she so wishes to see you again. It is not so far: a cab will quickly take us to her. You will have, at least, a kindly sympathetic ear in which to pour your sorrows, and--who knows?--the meeting between you may be the termination of all your trials and sufferings.” Lotte tried to reply. An inarticulate murmur was all that escaped her lips. Her deep emotion did not so easily admit of suppression. A cab opportunely approached, and Hal engaged it. He lifted Lotte in: she had not power to help herself. He followed her into the vehicle, and gave his directions to the driver. The man whipped his horse, and the cab rattled away from the bridge. Lotte thought of the sombre river, whirling on grimly, and she shuddered violently. Hal pressed her hand. “The gloomiest lane, Lotte,” he whispered, “sometimes leads us to the brightest land.” CHAPTER XIII.--THE FORGED DEED. The same self-love in all becomes the cause