once seated in which her fortitude gave way, and she burst into a flood of tears. She had been victorious, though—she had that great consolation for all she had undergone; she had achieved what she had undertaken-the object of her mission was accomplished; and she was then on her way to Grace's house, in possession of the letter which would bring about Grace's release from her certain degradation and ruin. It was no part, however, of Anne Studley's plan that Grace should be too soon made acquainted with the nature of the imminent peril with which she had been threatened, or the means which had been adopted for her deliverance. A patient and deep-searching student of character, Anne, during the year of their residence in the professor's house, had noted the change in her friend's temperament. Not that Grace Middleham was less affectionate | to the companion of her school-days, for nothing. could exceed the warmth and the regard which she took every opportunity of evincing; but, as her character became more formed, she had lost that habit of depending for everything upon Anne's aid and counsel, had become considerably self-reliant, and not a little self-willed. These qualities, Anne rightly judged, would have increased, rather than lessened, since Grace had been fully recognized as the heiress of her uncle's fortune, and had been made an object of general adulation; and it was therefore possible that, in the first moments of indignation at hearing what Anne had done, she would refuse to believe anything against her lover, and would insist on his returning to her. That Grace Middleham had entirely succumbed to Heath's influence and fascinations Anne knew too well, and that her anger against those who interfered between them would be proportionate to her passion for him she fully believed. It was above all things, therefore, desirable that Grace should be approached quietly, and, if possible, persuaded to return to Germany with Anne before the revelation was made; in order that, being at a distance, she would be deprived of the chance of taking, in the first outburst of her wrath, any positive steps of which she might be induced. in her calmer judgment, to disapprove and wish to revoke. On arrival at the house in Eaton-place, Anne, who, during the drive, had managed to regain her composure, again felt the effects of the hard trial which her nerves had undergone in the earlier portion of the day. But she recovered herself sufficiently to impress the tall footman, who answered her ring, and to whom she gave the name of Mrs. Waller, with the sense of her dignity, and, consequently, to make him show her into the dining-room and announce her promptly, instead of leaving her in the hall to take her chance of the time at which the message, that "A young person was waiting," might arrive upstairs. Grace happened to be alone when the announcement was made; and as it was a long time since she had heard Anne's pseudonym, and her mind had been so much occupied with other things, she at first failed to understand who wished to see her; but, the truth coming to her after a moment's reflection, she rushed past the astonished footman, hurried down the stairs, and, the next moment, had seized Anne in her arms and covered her with kisses. "My sweetest Anne," she said, "you are the very last person I should have thought of seeing here. Fancy your making your appearance in London after all your protestations that nothing earthly should induce you to come, and your refusal of the invitation which I sent you regularly for the first few weeks after my arrival !'' "I should not be here now, dear," said Anne, returning her friend's caresses, "if the occasion were not a most important one." "I know what it is," said Grace, suddenly drawing back. "You have received my letter, announcing my engagement with George-with Mr. Heath, I mean; and you have come to have a talk with me about it-a serious talk, I dare say, too-" "I have come on a serious matter, but not that," said Anne, quietly; and, unfortunately, I am the bearer of ill news. It will doubtless, be distasteful to you, in the midst of all your triumphs and successes, to hear of pain and sickness; but the fact is, that Madame Sturm is very ill-much worse than I have hitherto let you know." "Poor dear Frau Professorin !" said Grace. "How very sad; I am quite sorry for her." "She talks constantly of you," said Anne, on whom Grace's society-tone jarred unpleasantly, "and frequently expresses her most earnest wish to see you." "How unfortunate that her illness should have happened just at this time, when I am away," said Grace. "Latterly, she has been so urgent in the expres sion of this wish, that I have not known what to her; and, finally, I could refuse her prayers no longer, but set off, in the hope that I might persuade you to return with me to Germany." "My dear Anne," said Grace," that would be perfectly impossible." "Would it?" said Anne. "I fail to see that. You are your own mistress, are you not-you are depending on no one's will or wish ?" "No; of course, I am mistress of my own actions. There is no one whom I am absolutely obliged to consult," said Grace; but, still, people would think it so odd, my going away at a moment's notice." "What people?" asked Anne. "Very well," said Grace, "I will go with you to-night." But when this arrangement was communicated to Mrs. Crutchley, that worthy lady was highly exasperated, and did her utmost to prevent its being carried out. Though the season was considerably on the wane, there were balls to be gone to and engagements to be fulfilled. It was impossible that Miss Middleham should give up society, and tear herself away from her friends, for such a very inadequate reason as the illness of an old aunt; and when these various reasons had been successfully combated, Mrs. Crutchley fell back upon what was really the mainspring of all her motives. She perfectly recognized in the "Well, Mrs. Crutchley, for instance," replied Mrs. Waller, whose sudden and unexpected arriGrace. "Would it matter to you what Mrs. Crutchley thought ?" asked Anne. "She is, is she not, a very temporary acquisition-hired, like your house, horses, servants, etc., for the season, and then to be got rid of and never seen again? This old woman dying over there speaks of you as the only blood-relation now left to her; and implores you to come to her, that she may look upon your face before she dies." "I am the nearest relation left to her, I know," said Grace softening; and if I thought that I could do her any good" "Nothing can do her any good, Grace," said Anne; but it would be a satisfaction to her to take farewell of you; and to you, after she is gone, to know that you made her last hours happy at a very small sacrifice to yourself." "You are quite right, dear," said Grace, after a little pause. "It is my duty to go, and I will do it; she was kind to me, poor old lady, in her odd way, and I will not appear ungrateful. I need only stop a few days, and I am sure George will not object when he knows the reason of my absence." "You will come then with me by the mail-train, to-night," said Anne. "You will have no occasion to take a maid. I am Mrs. Waller, you know, and can do everything you want." "To-night is rather sudden, Anne, is it not?" said Grace. "I should like to have seen Mr. Heath." Every hour is of consequence," said Anne, firmly. Your aunt only lingers on from day to day, and you would not easily forgive yourself if you arrived too late." val had such influence over Miss Middleham's movements, the mysterious correspondent to whom Grace had addressed such frequent and such lengthy epistles; she thought there was something particularly suspicious, though what, she was not able to discover in these circumstances; and, beaten on every point, she urged most strongly that Grace should not leave London without seeing Mr. Heath. Of course, Grace was anxious for any opportunity of seeing her lover, and ast Anne made no objection, messengers were despatched in search of Mr. Heath, both at the bank and at his private chambers, and letters were written requesting him to come to Eaton-place at once. But Mrs. Crutchley was given to understand that in no case would Miss Middleham's departure be postponed, and orders were given that the necessary packing should be proceeded with. Time passes on, and the large footman announces that both the messengers have returned from unsuccessful searches. Mr. Heath was not to be found at the bank or at his chamber, and at neither place was it known whither he had gone; but the letters had been left for him, and Mrs. Crutchley, looking at her watch, declares that there is yet an hour before Grace starts, and opines that by that time he will arrive. The hour wanes, and Grace, after many caresses from Mrs. Crutchley (who is loud in her lamentations at the non-engagement of a courier), takes her seat by Mrs. Waller in the brougham, and is whirled away to Charing-cross, where the tall footman takes their tickets, looks at their luggage, and bestows on them a final benediction by lifting his hat as the train glides out of the station. Mr. Heath, too, has witnessed their departure from behind the shelter of some luggage barrows, piled on end; and his feelings towards one of the travellers, at least, are of anything but a benedictory nature. "You have succeeded, curse you!" he mutters to himself, as he moves out of the station. "You are carrying her away from me, and in a day or two you will tell her I beg your pardon !" The man against whom he has stumbled is shabbily dressed, with a slouch hat, and clothes of foreign cut, covered with worn and shining braid. He started at the sound of Heath's voice, and steps aside that he may get him more fully in the gaslight; then approaches him again, so closely, that Heath feels his hot thick breath upon his face, as he asks him in jeering tones, "Who is it you would like to murder next?" RESCUED FROM AMONG THE BULLS AND BEARS. STOCKS were up among the nineties; spirits in consequence down below zero. Even Kirk Broadwood's usually clear brow had two long wrinkles between the keen gray eyes that day, and the echoes of the roaring Bulls and Bears he had just broken loose from in the gold room, completely drowned all other sounds in his ears. Therefore, if it had not been for his keen eyes he should never have run into his romance, for he did not hear the startled little exclamation behind him, but seeing others look-he too turned, and beheld a curious tableau vivant. Upon the dusty, dirty sidewalk lay a little heap of ribbons, hair pins, dainty collars and cuffs, while the russia-leather bag which had contained these articles sprawled open it's great red mouth. as though it was laughing at the trick it had played its mistress in thus breaking loose from the handle still poised on her little gloved hand. "Oh dear!" came from the lips of the blushing girl as she stooped down to gather up the mass of feminine adornment so exposed to the vulgar gaze-while a saucy little newsboy, giving a shrill whistle, ran across the street and made a great pretence of assistance. "Allow me Miss," said Kirk, who, seeing the girl's evident confusion and distress at making so unusual a scene-on Wall street-had retraced his steps, and now restored the traitorous bag to its fair owner's hands. "Is everything quite right?" he ventured to ask, as he noticed the young girl looked around her anxiously, and dived down into the depths of the bag once or twice. "No-I-my pocket book is not here, sir," she stammered. "Are you sure? I fear then, the Knight who first came to your assistance, did so from a purely mercenary motive. That little rascally newsboy has undoubtedly paid himself for his prompt valor in your cause, by running away with your money," and Kirk looked up and down the street in vain for the little thief. "Yes-your gold has gone up'-not an unheard of thing, you know, on Wall street," he continued, smiling. "Oh, what shall I do! I told Hannah I should be home to-night-to-morrow is Sunday—and I haven't a cent!" The blue eyes filled up with tears that threatened to spill. "Pray do not be so distressed," replied Kirk quickly, "If you will allow me, I shall be only too happy to relieve you of any temporary embarrassment-may I ask where you are anxious to go?" "Fronefield-on the Essex Road-I was on my way to the ferry." "Why, that is my road, too! Please let me take charge of you-and that troublesome bag," and taking the article of their introduction from her hand, and his place by her side, as though he had known her all his life, he started on. "I don't see what else there is for me to do! I know no one in New York, I can't walk home, and Hannah expects me. I thank you sir, for your kind offer," she continued, in a grateful tone, "and my brother will return any loan 1 shall be obliged to accept from you." There was a quiet little dignity, so free from affectation, about the girl, that Kirk took a keener look at her when they were seated together on the car. She wasn't what one would call pretty, but there was a pure, sweet, look of maidenhood about her that charmed him. She wore neither the frizzes nor bangs of the "girl of the period." Her brown hair was put back smoothly from her white brow, and her whole attire was in perfect keeping with her subdued "style." Her suit of some soft gray stuff, and her hat a plain gray straw, with brown trimmings, made a suitable frame for the quiet figure and face of the maiden. Somehow, in looking at her, one was led to think of the quaint, Quakery parlors one is ushered into during yearly meeting time, the soft drab carpets, spotless curtains, little bouquets of prim cut flowers and so forth-and so Kirk, in looking at her now, felt his mind wandering off to his Grandmother Broadwood's home up in Pennsylvania, where he had played with some sweet little quaker girl's when he was a little boy. Taking up the volume of poems which lay in her lap he said: "Ah, I see you like Whittier. He is my poet." 'Yes, I do like him. He is our poet," she replied warmly. "Our poet," thought Kirk, "what did she mean? There wasn't enough coquetry about her to say that, because he had said he liked Whittier. Oh, of course she meant Hannah's' and brothers' and hers." "The next station is Fronefield, will you give me your name sir, that I may tell my brother to whom I am indebted." "Already? surely not! Why, is it possible we have reached here so soon," cried Kirk, looking out of the window. "Yes, I believe those are the Fronefield maples. My name? certainly," and Kirk felt in his pocket for a card. He had just time to give it to her, when the conductor shouted "Fronefield," and, thanking him again, his companion hurried out of the car, and the Strange, that beside a young girl, a young man's train was off again, before Kirk could discover thoughts should be of his grandmother! When the train was fairly started on it's way, Kirk determined he would try his hand at mending the obstreperous bag, that his companion might be better able to carry it when he should have to give it back in her charge. "Have you much of a walk from the station ?" he took occasion to ask, as he made an attempt to tie a slender string through the brass rings. "Not very far, and brother will no doubt meet me." “Ah-ha-There! I beg pardon." The bag had flown open during his clumsy endeavors to fasten the handle securely, and again a chaos of lace and ribbons fell to the ground. Kirk felt as confused at his awkwardness, as the young girl appeared over this second exposé of the secrets of her toilette, and his face was as flushed as hers, when he lifted it up from the floor after replacing the twice emptied contents. There might have been another reason, however, for the color on his brow, for a little rose-colored bow, which had fallen out of its nest, was not replaced this time, and a second knight that day had paid himself for his valor in her cause by a sly purloining of one of her effects. Kirk felt guilty when he took the article, but he nevertheless managed to pocket the ribbon as adroitly as the other thief had run off with her money. which way she went, or if anybody met her. And thus thinking and dreaming of his fair, He All the next week Kirk Broadwood kept apostrophizing his stupidity for not having discovered, in some way, the name of the young girl whose sweet face and quaint manner charmed and haunted him. Twice did he go out on the Essex road, on the same train, with a faint hope that perhaps she might be on also, but in vain. Sitting in his office one day, reading over his card, "Kirkland Broadwood, Attorney at-Law," and wondering what she thought of it, he was roused from his reveries by the entrance of a young, grave looking man. "Can I see Kirkland Broadwood ?" he asked. "That is my name, sir, what is your business?" replied Kirk, seeing something familiar at once in the face. "I am Luther Roland, and I have come to return the loan you were so kind as to give my sister last Saturday. It was very good in you, and I thank you." So this was "Brother!" Yes, there was the same look about the eyes, and his dress, all browns and drabs, as suggestive of Quakers and meetinghouses, as her's had been of dainty parlors, and Grandmother Broadwood-only one would never think of a rose-colored neck-tie here! "Ah, yes! I recollect," carelessly replied Kirk, as though the remembrance of the occurrence and the young lady was just recalled to his mind. "I am glad that I was so fortunate as to have been able to render the slight assistance it was in my power at the time, and I have regretted since that I was ignorant of the lady's name or address, or I should have been happy to inquire if she reached her friends in safety." "Quite safely. Our home is in Fronefield, and if you ever think it worth your while to give our little village a call at any time, we will all be very glad to see you at our cottage, No. 7 Maple ave nue." "Thank you, you are very kind. I have often thought I'd like to follow that pretty, shady Maple avenue that we catch a glimpse of from the car window, and now I shall some day. My business calls me on that road frequently, and the next time I take a trip on the Essex road I shall stop at Fronefield." "Well, you will find our house at the end of the walk, not far from Fronefield Pond, and I assure you, Hannah, and Phebe, and I will all be glad to see you." Then shaking hands warmly, the two men parted. "So her name is Phebe," said Kirk to himself, after the brother had gone, "and a dear little Phebe bird she was that day, all panting and trembling, a woodbird on Wall street. I wonder if she has missed her rose-colored bow," and Kirk drew it out of his vest pocket, looked at it, and put it back again. "I'll have business' on the Essex road shortly, and stop at Fronefield and see." warm, sunshiny afternoon, the shadow that fell down upon the Maple avenue leading toward Fronefield Pond looked very much like that of Kirk Broadwood, and when Luther Roland and his sister Phebe, who were coming down the road from the other end, saw it, they were quite sure it was he -so sure that Luther hurried forward to shake hands, and Phebe's cheeks grew the color of the ribbon that lay in Kirk's vest pocket. "You must come right on to our house now, and let Hannah see you-mustn't he, Phebe?" urged Luther. "Hannah wants to thank you for your goodness to sister." "I fear you overrate my goodness. I did only that which every gentleman would have done. under the circumstances," replied Kirk, a trifle abashed at receiving such profuse thanks, and a little bit embarrassed at seeing the maiden once more who had occupied his thoughts and dreams so often of late. They had reached the cottage now-a little, low white house, set in a square of green grass plat and with the cunningest little gate to enter the garden by. Everything looked so tiny and complete, it seemed almost like a doll's playhouse and "yes," thought Kirk, "there is the identical drab carpet, spotless curtains, and cut flowers on the mantel, that somehow I have always imagined would be in Phebe's home." "He says Hannah, thee overestimates his kindness, that any gentleman, under the circumstances would have done as much for sister," said Luther, as he presented his sister to the man whose little act of courtesy had indeed appeared to them a good deed. "Ah yes," replied Hannah, smiling and putting out her hand warmly, "any gentleman, perhaps, but there are Bulls and Bears in Wall street, and prowling wolves in the great City, and Phebe is such a child, she might have fallen in their way, and like Red Riding Hood, been devoured had she not met thee." How quaint their language sounded! Always to one another, Kirk noticed, they used the affectionate "Thee and Thou" of their sect, for they evidently belonged to the "Fronefield Friends," and were Quakers. Hannah had used the pronoun in speaking to him. He felt pleased, somehow, and determined he should try to deserve her favor. The more, as during their talk, he discov Accordingly, not very many weeks after, on a ered that the little quaker girls he had played |