furnished; but the rooms were rapidly filled
up; evidently not for my use and pleasure.
The capacious tea-caddy, curiously inlaid and
splendidly mounted, did not signify much to
me; neither was I ever likely to require the
Gothic work-table that I found one evening
slid, as if by accident, into a recess; and
to what earthly use could a bachelor in
lodgings put that frame on swivels, studded
all round with cribbage-pegs, that looked like
a swing-cheval without its glass ? In short,
every addition to the garniture of the
apartments was of the feminine gender. I looked
upon these novelties as so many notices to
quit; for I did not doubt that the rooms were
being quietly prepared for a more cherished
occupant. This supposition was confirmed,
when, curiosity prompting me to examine
the work-table, I saw, exquisitely inlaid
in cypher on the inside of the lid, the word
"Manette."

All this while, the Silhouette remained
obstinately invisible. For a few Sundays she
continued to go to church, but so thickly
veiled that a sight of her face was impossible.
Still he followed; but refrained from speaking.
The time had not come. He would not offer
his rough but honest hand while yet without
a home to which it could lead her.

Poor Bevil had soon to live on not only in
silent, but in sightless, despair; the little
black profile ceased to appear not only
behind her snowy transparencies, but bodily on
Sundays. From this time Bevil's intelligent,
but sad and thoughtful features struck
me with pity; I could not but see that
he was staking his hopes—his very
existence—on a cast, which might turn up a
deadly blank.

On one occasion, my hopes revived for him.
It was towards the close of a lovely summer's
day. The whiteness of the gossamer curtains
made them dazzle in the sun. The figure in
black approached; and after a hesitating
interval appeared in distinct outline close
behind the gauze. All this while, the sharp
cuts of Bevil's chisel were audible in busy
succession under me. The Silhouette's eyes
only, appeared just above the short curtain,
darting a long, devouring gaze upon the
toiler: they were red; a handkerchief was
pressed closely to her face. The chisel goes
on chipping away, without one intermission.
I would give a quarter's stipend if Bevil
would only be idle for a second, and look
up; for as the gazer strains her eyes upon
him, tears pour out of them, and sparkle in
the sun like falling diamonds. Presently she
sinks into a chair, as if overcome with grief;
and disappears. With this anguish, whatever
its immediate cause, I felt certain that
Bevil was connected.

"Surely this mystery is not  impenetrable.
I will unravel it." Accordingly, next morning
I took our opposite neighbours out of the
regular order of my visits, called, and
questioned the woman who rented the house. I
learnt that the girl's name was Manette. She
was an orphan: her father, a French teacher,
had died recently in a hospital. Her
embroidery was fetched and carried to and from
the warehouse by my informant's husband.
Her industry was extraordinary, and she
earned a comfortable subsistence. I asked to
see her, but was told she admitted no person
whatever into her room. Of late, especially,
she concealed her face, with an apparent dread
of being recognised by strangers.

My inquiries, therefore, darkened rather
than cleared up the mystery. As I left the
house, I observed that my landlord had been
watching. He looked wistfully into my face as
I passed him on the door-step, and I answered
his silent appeal by desiring him to follow me
to my room.

A very short conversation proved that all
my observations and deductions had been
correctly made. He owned everything. It
was painful to see a fine, muscular, handsome
man, suffused with the shame—honest
shame though it was—trembling with the
weakness we only expect from young impulsive
girls. I reasoned with him. I showed him
the full risk he ran in nurturing so perfect
an ideal out of a mere image; for to
him Manette was nothing more. I pointed
out the utter uselessness of his self-imposed
penance. She might be all he thought her;
she might be everything the reverse. How
could he know without some acquaintanceship?
It would be madness to give rashly a
pledge of matrimony without some probation.

In the end he promised to try and see
Manette the following day; and, descending
to his shop, worked away harder than ever.

Even now I see Bevil as, next morning he
stood at the door opposite. His lips quiver;
but his brow expresses a firm but anxious
purpose. The woman who admits him tells
him something which surprises and
disappoints him. Manette, for the first time for a
month, has gone out.—The next day was
Sunday, and the lover abstained from
intruding himself. On the Monday he had as
little success. In the evening he consulted
me as to what he had better to. Should he
write ?

I advised him by no means to commit
himself; and offered, if he would wait, I would use
the influence of my cloth to obtain an interview
for him. When the morning came, Bevil
desired to accompany me. He would, he said,
go himself; but would feel comforted and
fortified by the sanction of my presence.

Accordingly we sallied forth across the road
at noon the next morning. I would not wait
to hear the answer of the landlady; but,
pushing by the driver of a spring cart
that had just stopped at the house, went
straight up to Manette's door. Bevil followed.
I knocked; no answer. Not a sound within.
I knocked again, and quietly called her by
name. Utter silence. I then tried the door;
it yielded, and we entered.