I would not like to know her thoughts.
For there is a point of misery, at which but two doors of escape open to the gaze of a beautiful woman, who struggles with the last extreme of poverty: one door has the grave behind it, and the other,——
Yes, there are some thoughts which it is not good to write on paper. It was in the midst of this current of dark and bitter thoughts, that the eye of the young woman wandered absently to the faded shawl which she had thrown across the table.
"What is this? A letter! Pinned to my shawl—by whom?"
It was indeed a letter, addressed to her, and pinned to her shawl by an unknown hand.
She seized it eagerly, and opened it, and read.
Her face, her neck, and the glimpse of her bosom, opening above her dress, all became scarlet with the same blush. Still her eyes grew brighter as she read the letter, and incoherent ejaculations passed from her lips.
The letter was written—so it said—by the man who had taken her from the store on Canal street. Its contents we may not guess, save from the broken words of the agitated girl.
"'At twelve o'clock, at "the Temple," whose street and number you will find on the inclosed card.'"
And a card dropped from the letter upon the table. She seized it eagerly and clasped it as though it was so much gold.