CHAPTER XXIII.
LONG HAVE I BEEN TRUE TO YOU, NOW I'M TRUE NO LONGER.
Far away from the blue skies, and bracing breezes of Lower Canada, the twilight of a dull April day was closing down over the din and tumult of London.
It had been a wretched day--a day of sopping rain and enervating mist.
The newly-lighted street-lamps blinked dismally through the wet fog, and the pedestrians hurried along, poising umbrellas, and buttoned up to the chin.
At the window of a shabby-genteel London lodging-house a young woman sat, this dreary April evening, looking out at the cheering prospect of dripping roofs and muddy pavement.

She sat with her chin resting on her hands, staring vacantly at the passers-by, with eyes that took no interest in what she saw.

She was quite young, and had been very pretty, for the loose, unkempt hair was of brightest auburn, the dull eyes of hazel brown, and the features pretty and delicate.

But the look of intense sulkiness the girl's face wore would have spoiled a far more beautiful countenance, and there were traces of sickness and trouble, all too visible.

She was dressed in a soiled silk, arabesqued with stains, and a general air of neglect and disorder characterized her and her surroundings.