Miss Montressor was very much pleased with the aspect of affairs in New York. For the first time in her life, she felt herself a person of real and indubitable importance; the reception had pleased her; she was charmed with the look of the city, and delighted with her quarters at Fifth-avenue Hotel; the largeness and liberality of all the arrangements for public comfort, which cannot fail to strike the newly-arrived visitor in New York, duly impressed themselves upon Miss Montressor, and she had hardly become accustomed to her large and pleasant rooms, she was still discovering new perfections in them, and finding out points of advantage in everything American over everything English, when she was told that a person wished to see her. Visions of eager strangers bent on obtaining her autograph and photograph, dreams of interviewing, even notions of a sharp contention between rival managers, flashed in a moment across her lively imagination, as she requested that the person--no indication of the sex of the applicant had been given--should be invited to walk up. Miss Montressor was already very handsomely dressed, so that nothing remained but for her to assume a statuesque and striking attitude in which to await the arrival of her visitor. Half a minute sufficed to show her that her preparations were thrown away: no fashionable lounger, no splendidly-dressed lady, no eager man of business, was this visitor who thus early claimed admittance to her; only a plainly-dressed woman, carrying an infant in her arms, who stretched her disengaged hand eagerly towards her with a glad cry of, 'Clara! Clara!' Miss Montressor recoiled--to do her justice, it was only for a moment--the next she took the woman's hand, and saying, 'Hush! do not speak so loud,' kissed her. 'O, how glad I am to see you, Clara! You see, your grand new name comes quite easy to me. I have never forgotten that you told me not to call you Matty any more. How glad I was when I heard you were coming out, and though at first I took it very unkind that you did not write to tell me, I soon knew it was because you were sure I should see it in the papers.' The speaker had seated herself, loosened her shawl, and taken off her bonnet before Miss Montressor had recovered from the slight constraint of the first surprise. 'Yes,' she said, 'I am very glad, indeed, to see you; but you have put me in a mortal fright. I don't want to be unkind, you know--and you're a sensible woman--only think how it would ruin me if Jenkins came about after me here.'