There is no position in the world more cruel than that of a young girl, born in a good condition of life and delicately brought up, who suddenly finds herself bereft of means, of home, of love. Into this position was Emilia Braham thrust on the day her father was carried dead to the house in which he and his only child had passed many happy years. A scaffolding, loosely constructed, had given way as he passed beneath it, and he lay under the ruins with the life crushed out of him.

It had been a home of love, and the anxieties of the father had not been shared by the gentle, beautiful girl whose presence brightened it, whose pure spirit sanctified it. For it was indeed a sanctuary to the loving father, whose only aim had been to provide for his daughter, so that she might be spared the pangs which poverty brings in its train. In this endeavor he would almost certainly have succeeded had he been spared; but the fatal accident nipped his hopes in the bud, and she was left penniless and alone. Mr. Braham had kept up his head, as the saying is, and none who knew him had any idea of the clever man?uvring he had practised to keep him and his daughter from falling out of the ranks in which they had moved all their lives. A rash speculation had brought him to this pass, and for years he had been struggling to extricate himself from its consequences. Another year and all would have been well; but death came too soon, and his daughter lived to reap what he had sown.

Even the home had to be sold to satisfy the creditors, and when this was done Emilia, a child of eighteen, faced the world with a shrinking heart. She had in her purse barely ￡5; the few trinkets she had possessed had been sold; she had set great store upon them, and was amazed to discover that their value was so small. For the last, last time she walked through the familiar rooms, and touched the walls, and knelt by her bed; and then she crept out of the house and proceeded to the two rooms she had taken in a street hard by. It would have quite broken her heart to go out of the neighborhood in which she and her dear father had lived.

Upon the first news of the dreadful loss she had sustained friends came and sympathized with her, but when it was known that her father died a ruined man, the sympathy expressed proved to be mere vaporing; those who had spoken so softly and kindly came no more. Emilia did not appeal to them; when they met her in the streets, and passed by with hasty nods, she did not stop and ask the reason why. Her heart was sorely wounded, but her pride also was touched. The offence and the slight were more against the dead than the living, and she suffered chiefly for the dear lost father's sake. She went to her lodgings, and looked around at the cold walls until she could look no more for the tears in her eyes.

She lived quietly and sadly for two weeks, at the end of which time she had but a guinea left of her ￡5. A terrible fear took possession of her. What would become of her when her purse was empty? She had not been entirely idle, but had made some efforts to obtain a situation as governess. She could speak French and German fluently; she could draw, she could paint, she was a good musician, she could dance, and her manners were refined. But with all these advantages she was unsuccessful. And now she had but a guinea to her fortune, and the future was before her. She took refuge in prayer; it comforted, but it was of no practical assistance to her. Sunrise and sunset, sunrise and sunset again, and again, and again; and now her purse was empty. But she was saved from absolute despair. At the supreme moment a visitor knocked at her door, and entered without waiting to be bidden.

Call her a lady if you will, our business with her will last but a brief space. Her name was Seaton.

"I hear, Miss Braham, that you require a situation," said Mrs. Seaton, unceremoniously.

"Yes, madam," said Emilia, her hand at her heart. This hard-featured, hard-voiced visitor had surely been sent from heaven to succor her. "Will you be seated?"

Mrs. Seaton took a chair without a word of thanks. "Have you been out before?"

"Out, madam?" says Emilia. Unused to worldly ways and idioms, she did not catch the meaning of the phrase.

"I suppose you have had other situations," explained Mrs. Seaton, with ungracious condescension.

"No, madam."

"That is not encouragement. You have no character, then."

"My character," faltered Emilia, "is well known. My dear father and I have lived in this neighborhood many years."

"I do not like evasions. You know the kind of character I mean. Fitness to teach young children, capacity, willingness, experience, cheerfulness, readiness to make yourself useful in any way."

"I would be willing to make myself useful, madam, to do all I was told. I think I could teach young children. Will you try me? I beg of you to do so. I am in a dreadful position; I have not a shilling in the world, and not a friend, I am afraid. Try me, madam. I will do everything you wish."

"Umph! Not a shilling in the world! And not a friend! Still more discouraging, because, Miss Braham, we generally get what we deserve."

"I think I deserve friends, madam," said Emilia, striving to keep back her tears, "but I have been unfortunate. I think you would be satisfied with me. I would try very, very hard."

She held out her trembling hands; to a tender hearted woman the affecting appeal would have been irresistible.

"A lady," said Mrs. Seaton, "has to be careful whom she takes into her home. I have six young children. What can you teach?"

In timid accents Emilia went through her accomplishments.

"I have only your word for it," said Mrs. Seaton.

"I am telling the truth, indeed, madam."

"People are so deceitful, and what is almost as bad, so, ungrateful. I'll take you on trial, Miss Braham, will you promise to teach my sweet children and do everything that is required of you?"

"Yes, madam," replied Emilia, eagerly, "everything; and you will find me very grateful--indeed, indeed you will."

"I will wait to convince myself of that. When can you come?"

"At once, madam. To-day, if you wish.

"Not to-day; to-morrow, early. Servants invariably come at night, which shows their unwillingness and the spirit in which they accept a situation. Here is my address. You understand? I take you on trial only."

"Yes, madam, I understand, and I thank you with all my heart."

"Of course, in these circumstances I can give you no wages for the first month. If we suit each other we will arrange terms afterward. Is that agreeable to you?"

"Quite agreeable, madam. I will come to-morrow morning."

"Very well; I shall expect you before twelve."

That night Emilia went to bed without food; but her week's rent was paid and she left her lodgings without disgrace.

Then commenced a life of torture. The children she had to teach were quarrelsome and vicious, and no taskmaster could have been harder than Mrs. Seaton was to the servants in her house. Two had left; two had given notice to leave. The consequence was that Emilia's mistress called upon her to do every kind of menial office, and willing as Emilia was, she found herself unequal to them. She sat up late at night, and rose early in the morning, played the part of nurse, schoolmistress, lady's maid, and housemaid, never receiving a word of thanks, until existence became unbearable. Driven to despair, without a home, without a friend, without money, she did not know which way to turn. Delicately nurtured, a lady by instinct and education, refined in her manners, and unused to menial work, no more deplorable position could be imagined. It was while she was in this sore strait that she made the acquaintance of Gerald Paget.

Twice in each week she had the privilege of walking out alone for an hour in the afternoon. Gerald, passing her, was attracted by the gentle beauty of her face, and blessed his good fortune when he met her for the second time. On this second occasion chance assisted him to an introduction. She was crossing the road, engrossed in sad thought, when warning shouts aroused her from her musings. There were cabs coming one way, carts another, and between them she was in danger of being run over. She slipped and fell, and Gerald, rushing forward, caught her up and bore her to the pavement. But fright and weakness had prostrated her, and she lay in his arms in a fainting condition. He carried her into a chemist's shop, where she revived. The words of kindness and sympathy which fell upon her ears when she opened her eyes, the tender consideration expressed in Gerald's voice, overpowered the suffering girl, and she burst into a passion of hysterical tears. With difficulty he soothed her, but every word he uttered rendered more profound the impression he had already produced upon the young girl. The unaccustomed notes of tenderness touched Emilia's heart, and that night as she lay in bed she recalled the words and the voice and dwelt with infinite gratitude upon the image of the young gentleman who had treated her with so much gentleness and consideration. But he did not leave her before he saw her safely to Mrs. Seaton's door; she would have had it otherwise, but he would not allow her to have her way, and on their road he heard from her lips the pitiful story of her misfortunes, He made inquiries, and learnt that her story was true, and this increased his pity for her. As she dwelt upon his image on that night, so did he on hers, and thus from their first meeting was established a spiritual connection between them. On the following day he called at Mrs. Seaton's house to inquire how Miss Paget was after her accident, and as this was the first time that lady had heard of it she was not in the most amiable of moods when she next spoke to the young lady she had engaged, and whom she was treating as............