Julie that morning remarked that Lucille remained unusually late in her own rooms. Fearing that she might be ill, she ventured to visit her in her apartments. It was past twelve o'clock when she knocked at her door. There was no answer; and she knocked repeatedly, but without success. At last she opened the door, but Lucille was not as usual in that room. She walked through it, and the apartment beyond it, without seeing her; but in her dressing-room, which lay beyond that again, she found her. She was sitting in a loose morning-robe; her head was supported by her hand, and the open sleeve of heavy silk had fallen back from her white round arm. An open letter lay upon the table under her gaze. She had evidently been weeping, and was so absorbed either in her own reflections or the contents of the letter, that she did not perceive the entrance of Julie. The visitor paused; but feeling that every moment of her undiscovered presence added to the awkwardness of her situation, she called Lucille by name. At the sound of her name she started from her seat, and stood, pale as death, with all her dark hair shaken wildly about her shoulders, and her eyes gleaming with a malign terror upon the intruder. At the same moment she had clutched the letter, and continued to crumple it in her hand with a spasmodic eagerness. Julie was almost as much confounded as Lucille. Both were silent for a time. "I beg your pardon, dear Lucille; I fear my unperceived intrusion startled you." "Yes, yes; I suppose I am nervous. I am not well. Oh, God! you did startle me very much." To do her justice, she looked terrified; every vestige of color had fled from her face, even from her lips, and her eyes continued gleaming wildly and fixedly on her. "Why did you come, then--what do you want of me?" she said, at last, excitedly, and even angrily. "I came to ask how you are, Lucille--I feared you were ill." "I--I ill? You know I was _not_ ill," she said hurriedly and impatiently, and either forgetting or despising her own excuse of but a moment before. "You came--you came for a _purpose_, Julie--yes, yes--do not deny it--there is perfidy enough already." "You wrong me, Lucille; I told you the simple truth--why should I deceive you?" "Why--why? Because the world is full of deceit, full of falsehood and treason--they are every where, every where." She turned away, and Julie perceived that she was weeping. She was pained and puzzled--nay, she was crossed every moment by the horrid fear that Lucille's mind was unsettled. Her strange agitation seemed otherwise unaccountable. "Lucille--dear Lucille--surely you will not be angry with your poor little friend--surely you believe Julie." She looked at her for a moment, and said-- "Yes, Julie, I do believe you;" and so saying, she kissed her. "But--but I am utterly, and I fear irremediably miserable." "But what is the cause of your wretchedness, my dear Lucille?"