"Look here," he said, opening it and holding it toward Camillia, so that she alone could see its contents. "You won't refuse me a dollar or two for that, eh, lady?" Camillia could not repress a start of surprise. The case contained an imitation gold chain of the commonest workmanship, coiled round in a circle, in the center of which was a note folded into the smallest possible compass. Upon the uppermost side of this note was written the word "Fidelity," in a handwriting which was well known to the Spanish girl. "Will you buy the chain, lady?" asked the sailor. Camillia opened an ormolu casket on a table near her, and took out a handful of dollars, which she dropped into the ample palm of the sailor. "Will that requite you for your trouble, my good friend?" she asked. "Right nobly, lady." "If you can come again to-morrow, I may purchase something more of you." The sailor grinned; "I'll come if I can, my lady," he answered, and with a rough salute he left the room, followed by Pepita. "Was I right, Camillia?" asked Mademoiselle Corsi. "You were, dear Pauline; see, a note in Paul's hand!" "Shall I leave you to devour its contents?" "No, Pauline, I have no secrets from you henceforth," answered Camillia, unfolding the precious scrap of paper. It contained these words: "Fear not, dearest, and do not think it is guilt which has prompted my flight. Be faithful and trust me that all will yet be well; and remember that I may be near you when least you look for me. Affect an utter indifference to my fate, and mingle in the gay world as you have ever done. This is necessary to disarm suspicion. Above all, throw Augustus Horton off the scent, and let him believe that I have left America forever. "Ever and ever yours, "Paul." Camillia Moraquitos obeyed the instructions contained in this brief epistle; and when Don Juan entered her boudoir half an hour afterward, he found his daughter apparently in her usual spirits. Delighted at this change, he proposed that Camillia and Pauline should go to the opera that evening, attended by himself, and the ladies assented with every semblance of gratitude. The Opera-House was thronged that night with all the rank and fashion of New Orleans. It was the occasion of the re-appearance of a brilliant Parisian actress and singer who had lately returned to Louisiana after a twelve-months' absence in France. The box occupied by Don Juan was one of the best in the house, and amongst all assembled, there was none lovelier or more admired than Camillia Moraquitos. The Spanish girl wore a dress of rich amber silk, flounced with the costliest black lace. Her classically molded head was encircled by a simple band of gold, studded with diamonds. She waved a perfumed fan of ebony and gold in her small gloved hand.