I'm like the mysterious orphans in the story-books, and I expect it will turn out I have a duke for a father, somewhere or other." Miss Dane walked to the window, drew the curtain, and looked out.
The full April moon, round and white, shone down in silvery radiance upon the deserted avenue; the sky was aglitter with myriad stars; the rattling of belated vehicles came, faint and far off, on the windless night.
No-one was visible--not even a stray "guardian of the night," treading his solitary round--and Mollie, after one glance at the starry concave, was about to drop the curtain and retire, when a tall, dark figure came fluttering up the street, pausing before the Walraven mansion, and gazing up earnestly at its palatial front.
Mollie recognized that towering form instantly, and, impulsively opening the sash, she leaned forward and called: "Miriam!" The woman heard her, responded, and advanced.
Mollie leaned further out.
"Have you come to see me ?" "I should like to see you.

I heard you had returned, and came here, though I did not expect to meet you at this hour." "Wait one moment," said Mollie; "I will go down and let you in." She closed the window and flew down-stairs, opened the house door softly, and beckoned.
Miriam entered.

Ten minutes later, and they were safely closeted in the young lady's cozy room.
"Sit down, Aunt Miriam, and take off your shawl.

You look cold and wretched and half starved." The woman turned her hollow eyes mournfully upon her.

They were indeed a contrast--the bright vision in the rose silk dress, the floating amber curls, the milky pearls, the foamy lace, and the weird woman in the wretched rags, with sunken cheeks and hollow, spectral eyes.
"I am cold and wretched and half starved," she said, in a harsh voice--"a miserable, homeless outcast, forsaken of God and man.