CHAPTER II.
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
In the cosy chamber of an apartment located in a fashionable quarter of New York Louise Merrick reclined upon a couch, dressed in a dainty morning gown and propped and supported by a dozen embroidered cushions.
Upon a taboret beside her stood a box of bonbons, the contents of 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.