e some bread, dipped it in milk, and put it to my lips. y in it, and I felt sympatoo, tion spoke: “try to eat.”

    “Yes—try,” repeated Mary gently; and Mary’s  and lifted my asted  first, eagerly soon.

    “Not too muc first—restrain e of bread.

    “A little more, St. Jo ty in her eyes.”

    “No more at present, sister. try if she can speak now—ask her her name.”

    I felt I could speak, and I anst.” Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I o assume an alias.

    “And where do you live? here are your friends?”

    I .

    “Can we send for any one you know?”

    I shook my head.

    “ account can you give of yourself?”

    Some I  face to face s o no longer outcast, vagrant, and disoo put off t—to resume my natural manner and cer. I began once more to kno I oo o render—I said after a brief pause—

    “Sir, I can give you no details to-night.”

    “But  me to do for you?”

    “Notrengt s ansook the word—

    “Do you mean,” s  o t?”

    I looked at , a remarkable countenance, instinct botook sudden courage. Anse rust you. If I erless and stray dog, I kno you  turn me from your o-nig is, I really  excuse me from muc—I feel a spasm w.

    “. Jo last, “let  t present, and ask ions; in ten minutes more, give  milk and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go into talk tter over.”

    turned—I could not tell upor ealing over me as I sat by tone sions to ’s aid, I contrived to mount a staircase; my dripping clot unutterable exion a gloeful