is also well-dressed and good-looking is a pleasant and picturesque object. Just in the same way she was accustomed to hang on her uncle's arm and gaze up into his face, not because she cared one iota for her uncle, but because she considered it an effective tableau. The sole reason that Lucy Warrender never accepted any of the good offers which she received was, that she thought herself better off as her own mistress. If Lucy Warrender had been a man, she would have been one of those wholly unobjectionable persons, one of those single-minded individuals, whose life is passed in trying to get the greatest possible amount of personal enjoyment out of this world. As we know, Lucy was not troubled with what is called a heart; true she had made what she now considered a mistake at the outset, but she had burnt her fingers so severely that from that time she was never likely again to lapse from her religion of self-worship. When they had first returned from Switzerland, she had had considerable cause for anxiety, for the fear of being found out had troubled her a good deal, but that shadow had gradually passed away and the whole affair now seemed to her merely like a troubled dream, which she still remembered in a vague sort of way. Happy, tranquil and contented, Miss Lucy Warrender, looking fresh as a rose, sat down to the well-furnished breakfast-table at The Warren and turned over in a meditative manner the three or four letters which had arrived for her by the morning's post. Miss Warrender was a wise young woman; she always ate her breakfast first and postponed the perusal of her correspondence till the meal was over. She put her letters in her pocket, as was her custom, and did full justice to the substantial meal which graced the squire's board; at its conclusion, provided with one of her favourite yellow-coloured novels, she lounged into the garden prepared to get through the morning with the least possible amount of trouble to herself. She sat down in a shady nook of the rose garden and read two of her letters, gossipy effusions from female acquaintances; then she took up the last letter, which was on thin paper and addressed in a legible but foreign-looking hand. She opened it carelessly, but as her eyes fell upon the contents she drew herself up, suddenly the colour left her lips. This was what she read: "131, Gerard Street, Soho. "MADAME,