letter D. It was useless, however; the name she sought was not there.

She stood musing for a few moments, then opening her pocket-book—an elegant affair of Russia leather with clasps of gold—she took from it a card to which she referred.

“The name is surely not in the directory,” she murmured.

There was a moment of silence, then the distinguished-looking gentleman behind the desk stepped forward again.

“Did you speak to me, madame?” he inquired, blandly.

The lady started and looked up quickly, the color on her cheek deepening a trifle at his query.

“I did not know that I spoke at all,” she replied, with a brilliant smile, which revealed two rows of white, handsome teeth, every one of them her own.

“I beg your pardon,” said the druggist, with a bow and a backward step, as if to beat a retreat again.

Madame made a motion with her faultlessly gloved hand to detain him.

“I was looking for the name of August Damon,” she said, her eyes wandering again to the directory; “but I do not find it there.”

“Ah! some one whose residence you wished to find in the city?” the gentleman remarked.

“Yes. I imagined I should find him here,” said the lady, thoughtfully.

The druggist drew the book toward him, ran his eyes through the names under the D’s.

“The name is not here,” he said at last, as he raised his glance and fixed it with keen scrutiny upon that beautiful face before him.

Madame tapped her foot impatiently and somewhat nervously on the floor.

“I am greatly disappointed,” she said.

“You are sure that you have the correct name—you have made no mistake?” the gentleman inquired, glancing at the card in her hand.

“Yes: but you can see for yourself,” and she passed it to him, with a smile.

It was a common visiting card, yellow, and defaced with age and handling, and it bore the name of “August Damon,” written with ink in a fine, gentlemanly hand.

“Do you know that your friend resides in Boston, madame?” the pharmacist asked, as his keen eyes fixed themselves again upon her countenance.

“They—used to; it—is some years since I last visited the city, and it is possible they have removed to some other place. They must have done so,” she concluded, with a sigh, “or I should surely have found their name in the directory.”

“Were Mr. and Mrs. Damon the parties to whom you gave your child, Mrs. Marston?”

The question was very quietly, very politely put, but it was like the application of a powerful galvanic battery to the woman on the other side of the counter.

A shock—a shiver ran through her entire frame.

She grew deadly white, and for a moment seemed ready to drop to the floor.

Then she rallied.

“Sir!” she said, with a haughty uplifting of her proud head.

“Madame!”

“I do not understand you.”

“Did you not? Shall I repeat my question?” was the quiet query.

She made a gesture of impatience.

“You have made a mistake,” the lady returned, but her eyes were searching the druggist’s face with a lightning glance, while that deadly paleness again overspread her own.

“Nay, madame,” was the bland rejoinder; “I am one of the few men in the world who never forget either a face or a name! Mrs. Marston, surely you have not forgotten Doctor Thomas Turner who waited upon you at the —— House one bitter night in the winter of 18—.”