This young lady, whose beauty, goodness, wisdom, eloquence and powers of persuasion were rumored to be almost miraculous, had founded schools and asylums, and had collected by subscription a large amount of money, with which she was coming to America, to select and purchase a tract of land to settle a colony of the London poor. This angel girl's name and fame was a low, sweet echo, as I said before--never noisy, never rising high--keeping near the ground. People spoke of her in quiet places, and dropped their voices to gentle tones in mentioning her and her works. Such was the spell it exercised over them. This lady's name possessed the strangest fascination for Thurston Willcoxen; he read eagerly whatever was written of her; he listened with interest to whatever was spoken of her. Her name! it was that of his loved and lost Marian!--that in itself was a spell, but that was not the greatest charm--her character resembled that of his Marian! "How like my Marian?" would often be the language of his heart, when hearing of her deeds. "Even so would my Marian have done--had she been born to fortune, as this lady was." The name was certainly common enough, yet the similarity of both names and natures inclined him to the opinion that this angel-woman must be some distant and more fortunate relative of his own lost Marian. He felt drawn toward the unknown lady by a strong and almost irresistible attraction; and he secretly resolved to see and know her, and pondered in his heart ways and means by which he might, with propriety, seek her acquaintance. While thus he lived two lives--the outer life of work and usefulness, and the inner life of thought and suffering--the young people of his party, hoping and believing him to be enjoying the honors heaped upon him, yielded themselves up to the attractions of society. Miriam spent much of her time with her friend, Alice Murray. One morning, when she called on Alice, the latter invited her visitor up into her own chamber, and seating her there, said, with a mysterious air: "Do you know, Miriam, that I have something--the strangest thing that ever was--that I have been wanting to tell you for three or four days, only I never got an opportunity to do so, because Olly or some one was always present? But now Olly has gone to court, and mother has gone to market, and you and I can have a cozy chat to ourselves." She stopped to stir the fire, and Miriam quietly waited for her to proceed. "Now, why in the world don't you ask me for my secret? I declare you take so little interest, and show so little curiosity, that it is not a bit of fun to hint a mystery to you. Do you want to hear, or don't you? I assure you it is a tremendous revelation, and it concerns you, too!" "What is it, then? I am anxious to hear?"