“Anneli,” she said, in a low voice, “was that the same lady?  Are you sure?”

“Certain, Fraulein,” said her companion, eagerly.

“She must be very unhappy,” said the girl.  “I think, too, she was crying.”

Then she looked at the trinket that the stranger had dropped into her lap.  It was an old-fashioned silver locket formed in the shape of a heart, and ornamented with the most delicate filagree work; in the centre of it was the letter N in old German text.  When Natalie Lind opened it, she found inside only a small piece of paper, on which was written, in foreign-looking characters, “From Natalie to Natalushka.”

“Anneli, she knows my name!” the girl exclaimed.

“Would you not like to speak to the poor lady, Fraulein?” said the little German maid, who was very much excited, too.  “And do you not think she is sure to come this way again—­to morrow, next day, some other day?  Perhaps she is ill or suffering, or she may have lost some one whom you resemble—­how can one tell?”

CHAPTER V.

PIONEERS.

Before sitting down to breakfast, on this dim and dreary morning in February, George Brand went to one of the windows of his sitting-room and looked abroad on the busy world without.  Busy indeed it seemed to be—­the steamers hurrying up and down the river, hansoms whirling along the Embankment, heavily laden omnibuses chasing each other across Waterloo Bridge, the underground railway from time to time rumbling beneath those wintry-looking gardens, and always and everywhere the ceaseless murmur of a great city.  In the midst of all this eager activity, he was only a spectator.  Busy enough the world around him seemed to be; he alone was idle.

Well, what had he to look forward to on this dull day, when once he had finished his breakfast and his newspapers?  It had already begun to drizzle; there was to be no saunter up to the park.  He would stroll along to his club, and say “Good morning” to one or two acquaintances.  Perhaps he would glance at some more newspapers.  Perhaps, tired of reading news that did not interest, and forming opinions never to be translated into action, he would take refuge in the library.  Somehow, anyhow, he would desperately tide over the morning till lunch-time.

Luncheon would be a break; but after—?  He had not been long enough in England to become familiar with the whist-set; similarly, he had been too long abroad to be proficient in English billiards, even if he had been willing to make either whist or pool the pursuit of his life.  As for afternoon calls and tea-drinking, that may be an interesting occupation for young gentlemen in search of a wife, but it is too ghastly a business for one who has no such views.  What then?  More newspapers?  More tedious lounging in the hushed library?  Or how were the “impracticable hours” to be disposed of before came night and sleep?