“Madam—Miss Halstead!” cried Savage, while his face wore one flush of indignation. “I do not wonder that you are astonished,” persisted Miss Eliza. “It was an insult; no amount of prettiness could excuse it—not that I think the creature pretty, far from it. Well, this girl, after standing up in one of the most vulgar, poverty-stricken pictures you ever saw, in her real dress, and character, too, flaunted herself in velvet, and gold, and jewels, as Rebecca, in a gorgeous tableau, with young Gould as the Templar. This was directly after our exquisite representation, and, I dare say, intended to rival it. Well, somehow, Georgiana, who is always doing childish things, got acquainted with the girl then and there, behind the scenes, I believe, where the artful thing had pretended to faint.” “Oh! Miss Halstead, this is too much!” exclaimed Savage, starting up with anger in his eyes. “I thought that you would feel this keenly, knowing how nearly Georgiana, foolish child, is related to myself,” resumed Miss Eliza, with great self-complacency. “And this generous indignation touches me to the heart. Oh! it is so sweet to be thoroughly appreciated. But this is not all; Georgiana was full of this girl’s praises, pitied her, raved about her beauty-beauty, indeed! but that was to annoy me—the silliness of youth is often very malicious; and at last went off to the horrid place where this creature lives, in defiance of my wishes, in absolute scorn of my opinion. This very day she visited this disreputable creature in her garret, as if she had been an equal.” “Disreputable!” repeated Savage, starting up, pale with suppressed wrath. “Miss Halstead, I cannot listen to this. I, too, have visited the young lady you condemn so bitterly.” “Young lady, Mr. Savage! and to me!” faltered Miss Eliza, with a flame of natural color overpowering the permanent roses of her cheek. “Great heavens! to me!” “Yes, Miss Halstead, I said lady; and that Miss Anna Burns certainly is, if one ever lived.” Miss Eliza grew livid about her mouth and forehead; even her hands turned coldly white. “A lady, and live in that house!” she said, with a snarling laugh. “Yes, madam; even there.” “Madam! You call me madam—you!” cried the spinster, burying her face between both hands. “Has it come to this, and for her sake?” “Poverty, undeserved poverty does not change a refined nature. That girl, madam, is good, gentle, intelligent. Her presence would make any place beautiful.” “Oh! oh! my heart, my heart!” cried Miss Eliza, pressing both hands to her side, and rocking to and fro in her chair. “These words pierce me like a poisoned arrow!” “Forgive me; I do not wish to be harsh; but this young girl is so unprotected.” “Forgive you! Alas! this poor heart has no choice,” cried the lady, reaching out her arms with touching impulsiveness. “Its fibres are too delicate; the touch of woe wounds it. With me, forgiveness is a sweet duty.”