of glass which, put like a slate into a wooden frame, hung on a nail.
"I have forgotten to wipe off my rouge," muttered she; "a pretty figure I look, with these red streaks!" she took her handkerchief and removed the stains, then you saw that the cheek was pale and hollow. She stood before the fire for some time, though every gesture betrayed her impatience. When the landlady came in, she called her, and placed in her hands a small sum of money. "This is last week's bill!"
The woman half hesitated to take it, but she was very poor herself; as she took it she said, with great kindness, "I have been sitting with him, but he is very bad to-night!"
Lavinia started! "I am quite dry, the damp can do him no harm now;" so saying, she hurried up the narrow staircase to a small room, where, on a wretched bed, lay Walter Maynard!
There was the end of all his glorious fancies—of all his lofty aspirations. The poetry, which had so often made real life seem like a
