hoped she would be heard from within twenty-four hours."
"Mr. Gryce here!"
"Yes; came to report how matters were progressing,—not that they seemed to have advanced very far."
"You could hardly have expected that yet. You must not be so easily discouraged."
"But I cannot help it; every day, every hour that passes in this uncertainty, is like a mountain weight here"; and she laid one trembling hand upon her bosom. "I would have the whole world at work. I would leave no stone unturned; I"
"What would you do?"
"Oh, I don’t know," she cried, her whole manner suddenly changing; "nothing, perhaps." Then, before I could reply to this: "Have you seen Eleanore to-day?"
I answered in the negative.
She did not seem satisfied, but waited till her friend left the room before saying more. Then, with an earnest look, inquired if I knew whether Eleanore was well.
"I fear she is not," I returned.
"It is a great trial to me, Eleanore being away. Not," she resumed, noting, perhaps, my incredulous look, "that I would have you think I wish to disclaim my share in bringing about the present unhappy state of things. I am willing to acknowledge I was the first to propose a separation. But it is none the easier to bear on that account."
"It is not as hard for you as for her," said I.
"Not as hard? Why? because she is left comparatively poor, while I am rich—is that what you would say? Ah," she went on, without waiting for my answer, "would I could persuade Eleanore to share my
