pale, saffron-colored silk, were arranged here and there throughout the gorgeous room.  The low, and exquisitely carved French bedstead was half hidden by a flowing drapery of embroidered lace, which, depending from a small hoop of mother-of-pearl in the ceiling, hung like a tent over it.  The toilette-table was elaborately furnished.  Between its twisted rosewood pillars, which were inlaid with pearl, in graceful device, swung an immense oval mirror, set in a frame of the same materials.  Near it stood a small marble table, supported by an alabaster Psyche, around which were strewn perfumes, jewel-cases, and various costly articles for toilette uses.  On each side of the mirror projected gas-burners in the form of clusters of lilies—­the flowers being of the purest porcelain, and the rest highly gilt and embossed.  Helen threw herself down wearily in a large chair, while her maid turned up the light, which was burning dimly, to a brighter flame, which revealed more minutely the splendors of the room.  Over the toilette-glass hung a picture—­there were no others on the frescoed walls; it was set far back in a superb oval frame of ivory and gold, and as the brilliant glare of lights shot upwards, an exquisite painting of the Mater Dolorosa could be distinctly seen—­a strange companion, or presiding genius, or ornament for the shrine for pride and vanity.

“You can go now, Elise,” said Helen languidly.

“Shall I not undress madame’s hair, and put her jewels away?” inquired the Frenchwoman with an air of amazement.

“No—­leave me at once,” she replied, impatiently.

“Deshabillez-vous,” muttered the woman.  “To tell me go!  I who was fille-de-chambre to une Grande Duchesse!  Mon dieu! la chaleur est tres-incommode! Ingrat—­parvenu! Un—­deux—­trois!  Il est temps de se coucher.”  Helen had just touched her repeater, and with its soft, silvery chime, it struck three.  Elise hurried away from the door, where she had lingered, in hopes of being recalled, to comfort herself with a glass of eau-de-sucre, ere she returned to her pillow.  Helen got up and locked her door, and began to walk to and fro.  By and by the past, mingling with the present, made such a torrent of bitter memories seethe and sweep through her desolate soul, that she wrung her hands, and rushed backwards and forwards like one mad.  In her wild mood, she saw the glitter of her jewels, as she swept by the large mirror of her toilette.  She paused, gazed at herself a moment, then, with a frantic gesture, tore the diamonds from her hair and neck, and with a bitter laugh dashed them from her.  Her beautiful face, as white as the alabaster Psyche near her, was full of wild and demoniac expressions, which chased each other with the velocity of clouds over her countenance.  Remorse, anguish, and despair settled like a brooding tempest on her forehead; then wringing her hands, she again commenced her walk.