“Simply for this reason, dear friend: that nice old lady would not take a dollar of my money for any purpose; nor would Anna, I am certain. But from you it would be different. Let me find the money, and you shall be my agent—the fairest and sweetest that ever served a friend.” “I understand now. Yes, you are right; they could not receive benefits from you; but I am different. Let me once reach their hearts, and all will be easy.” “Then you will do this?” “Why should you ask me? Have I not promised? But I only ask one privilege; let me tell grandmamma. She will help me as no one else can.” “But will she consent? Will she keep our secret?” “What, grandmamma? Of course she will.” Here a knock at the door disturbed the young people. Savage drew back and leaned against the mantel-piece, while Georgie bade the intruder enter. A servant came in with Miss Eliza Halstead’s compliments, and she trusted Mr. Savage would give her a few moments’ conversation up stairs before he left the house. Miss Eliza had something very particular, indeed, which she wished to communicate. Mr. Savage sent word that he should be delighted to pay his respects to Miss Eliza, and would do himself that honor in a few minutes. The servant closed the door. Then Savage, with ardent thanks, that went to the young girl’s heart like arrows tipped with flame, took his leave of Georgiana, and left her alone with her wounded life. Miss Eliza had been in a state of wild commotion from the moment she saw young Savage enter the house from her stand-point over the banisters. She, too, had her boudoir, which, however, was half dressing-room, into which she made a plunge with a breathless determination to convert the confusion, which usually reigned there, into a state of picturesque elegance, suggestive of her own poetic mind. To this end she hustled a pile of paper-covered books, two or three pairs of old slippers, a faded bouquet, and a dilapidated dressing-case into the next room; dusted the tables with a fold of her morning-wrapper, in which she had been indolently reading, and then took a general survey of the apartment. Over the small centre-table, which she had just dusted, hung a basket of artificial flowers, somewhat faded and dusty, but in good preservation, considering that they had done duty for more than one season on Miss Eliza’s head. Over this, apparently plunging downward, as if intent on burying himself in the flowers, dust or no dust, was a moderately-sized cupid, white as snow, suspended to the ceiling by an invisible wire, and holding his arms out toward the flowers which that envious wire permitted him to contemplate, but forbade him to reach.