“‘LESLIE.’ “And I am hunting Emily Sutton Marsh with a view to returning her to the place where she belongs.” TALE TWENTY. A SCIENTIFIC PHENOMENON. “When I remember something which I had, But which is gone, and I must do without, I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, Even in cowslip time, when hedges sprout; It makes me sigh to think on it,—but yet My days will not be better days, should I forget.” “Yes, art brought me to this.” The speaker was a tall, thin, young woman of a nervous temperament. The storm of dark hair was pushed back in hurried confusion; the heavy brows and long lashes which protected the dark blue eyes seemed a fitting division between the high cheek bones and the bloodless forehead; her nose, so straight and thin that it corresponded with the lines or wrinkles which extended upward at either end of the mouth, and seemed to cut short the smile which otherwise might have been as merry as the dimple in her little chin would indicate. Nature had left the stamp of refinement on her face, perhaps for no other purpose than to show the world that Celeste Moss had not always had a bent back and pricked fingers—the effect of shop duties. Her home was in two rooms, which, in spite of the lack of elegant furniture and rare bric-a-brac, showed signs of culture, if in no other way than the tidiness of the floors, which were without carpets or rugs. The only new article in the room which was visible was a pair of trousers, and they were just being wrapped into a neat bundle by the deft and willing hands of this industrious woman, as she opened the interview with the first remark of this story. “Art seems to have launched your ship of destiny into strange channels,” I ventured in way of reply. “Yes, and I have been called upon to face many breakers and tide the waves of furious storms in the best way I could.” “I am sure your career has been an interesting one.” “Not so interesting as unpleasant,” she said, “and if you will excuse me for a moment, I will tell you all.” That moment she consumed by carefully dusting and closing the machine with the same tenderness and precision with which some musician might put away his beloved instrument. “You take good care of your machine.” “Yes, that is all there is between me and the street; I must take good care of that.” “I believe you said art transposed you from some other sphere in life to your present position,” said I, anxious to draw her back to her subject.