which she occasionally nibbled as she turned the pages of her novel.

The girl had a pleasant and attractive face, although its listless
expression was singular in one so young. It led you to suspect that
the short seventeen years of her life had robbed her of all the
anticipation and eagerness that is accustomed to pulse in strong young
blood, and filled her with experiences that compelled her to accept
existence in a half bored and wholly matter-of-fact way.

The room was tastefully though somewhat elaborately furnished; yet
everything in it seemed as fresh and new as if it had just come from
the shop--which was not far from the truth. The apartment itself
was new, with highly polished floors and woodwork, and decorations
undimmed by time. Even the girl's robe, which she wore so gracefully,
was new, and the books upon the center-table were of the latest
editions.

The portiere was thrust aside and an elderly lady entered the room,
seating herself quietly at the window, and, after a single glance at
the form upon the couch, beginning to embroider patiently upon some
work she took from a silken bag. She moved so noiselessly that the
girl did not hear her and for several minutes absolute silence
pervaded the room.

Then, however, Louise in turning a leaf glanced up and saw the head
bent over the embroidery. She laid down her book and drew an open
letter from between the cushions beside her, which she languidly
tossed into the other's lap.

"Who is this woman, mamma?" she asked.