The walls, of a very faint lilac tint, were hung with prize sketches, in water colors or in pencil, by young ladies who had left. In the former works of art, distant nature was represented as, on the whole, of a mauve hue, while the foreground was mainly composed of burnt-umber rocks, touched up with orange. The shadows in the pencil drawings had an agreeably brilliant polish, like that which, when conferred on fenders by Somebody’s Patent Dome-Blacklead, “increases the attractions of the fireside,” according to the advertisements. Maitland knew all the blacklead caves, broad-hatted brigands, and pea-green trees. They were old acquaintances, and as he fidgeted about the room he became very impatient. At last the door opened, and Miss Marlett appeared, rustling in silks, very stiff, and with an air of extreme astonishment. “Mr. Maitland?” she said, in an interrogative tone. “Didn’t you expect me? Didn’t you get my telegram?” asked Maitland. It occurred to him that the storm might have injured the wires, that his message might never have arrived, and that he might be obliged to explain everything, and break his bad news in person. “Yes, certainly. I got _both_ your telegrams. But why have you come here?” “Why, to see Margaret Shields, of course, and consult you about her. But what do you mean by _both_ my telegrams?” Miss Marlett turned very pale, and sat down with unexpected suddenness. “Oh, what will become of the poor girl?” she cried, “and what will become of _me_? It will get talked about. The parents will hear of it, and I am ruined.” The unfortunate lady passed her handkerchief over her eyes, to the extreme discomfiture of Maitland. He could not bear to see a woman cry; and that Miss Marlett should cry--Miss Marlett, the least melting, as he had fancied, of her sex--was a circumstance which entirely puzzled and greatly disconcerted him. He remained silent, looking at a flower in the pattern of the carpet, for at least a minute. “I came here to consult you, Miss Marlett, about what is to become of the poor girl; but I do not see how the parents of the other young ladies are concerned. Death is common to all; and Margaret’s father, though his life was exposed to criticism, cannot be fairly censured because he has left it And what do you mean, please, by receiving _both_ my telegrams? I only #sent _one_, to the effect that I would leave town by the 10.30 train, and come straight to you. There must be some mistake somewhere. Can I see Miss Shields?” “See Miss Shields! Why, she’s _gone!_ She left this morning with your friend,” said Miss Marlett, raising a face at once mournful and alarmed, and looking straight at her visitor. “She’s _gone!_ She left this morning with my friend!” repeated Maitland. He felt like a man in a dream.