Louis will deliver these hurried lines, and will take care of you on the journey to Paris.

Kiss the children for me a thousand times--and never mind their education for the present! Pack up instantly, my dear, and I will be fonder of you than ever.

Your affectionate friend, Adela Montbarry.' Agnes folded up the letter; and, feeling the need of composing herself, took refuge for a few minutes in her own room.
Her first natural sensations of surprise and excitement at the prospect of going to Venice were succeeded by impressions of a less agreeable kind.

With the recovery of her customary composure came the unwelcome remembrance of the parting words spoken to her by Montbarry's widow:--'We shall meet again--here in England, or there in Venice where my husband died--and meet for the last time.' It was an odd coincidence, to say the least of it, that the march of events should be unexpectedly taking Agnes to Venice, after those words had been spoken! Was the woman of the mysterious warnings and the wild black eyes still thousands of miles away in America?
Or was the march of events taking her unexpectedly, too, on the journey to Venice?
Agnes started out of her chair, ashamed of even the momentary concession to superstition which was implied by the mere presence of such questions as these in her mind.
She rang the bell, and sent for her little pupils, and announced their approaching departure to the household.

The noisy delight of the children, the inspiriting effort of packing up in a hurry, roused all her energies.