are too young. I cannot feel it either right
or prudent," said Mrs. Huxley.

"My dear Agnes," said Miriam, "you shall
not be trusted to the mercy of that woman.
She cares for nothing but excitement. She
has no notion of obligation, and will be as
likely as not to have left Paris by the time
you arrive, if the fancy has taken her for
visiting Egypt or Mexico. I know what she
is, and you shall not go."

"My dear aunt, as I am to make my own
way in the world, the sooner I begin the
better. I am to take charge of others, and I
must learn to take care of myself. My dear
Miriam, you are unjust. I place very little
dependence on the stability of Mrs. Warren's
emotions; but she always likes people when
they are with her. It is an opening I am
not likely to have again, and the sooner I
avail myself of it the better."

"Agnes, be warned, I entreat you. No
good will ever come out of that woman's
random benefits. They are no better than
snares. Have nothing to do with her."

Agnes would not be warned. She wished
to go out into the world, to make her own
way. She had no fears for herself. She
argued and persuaded, and at last her aunt
consented. Miriam was over-ruled, and a
grateful acceptance was written to Mrs.
Warren, fixing that day three weeks for her
departure.

"The die is cast now!" said Agnes, when
she returned from carrying the letter to the
post, "I wonder what my future lot will
be!"

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

THE diligence rolled heavily into the Court
of the Messageries Royal in Paris, towards
the middle of a keen bright day in the last
week of December. A fair, elegant English
girl, in deep mourning, looked anxiously out
of the window of the coupé, in search of some
one to claim her.

"Is there any one waiting for you,
Ma'mselle?" asked the good-natured conductor.
"Will it please you to alight?"

"I see no one," said Agnes, who was
bewildered with the noise and bustle. "I
must have a coach to go to this address,
please."

"Mrs. Warren, Hotel Raymond," read the
conductor, looking at her keenly. "You
want to go there, do you? Well, I will see.
Your friends ought not to have left you to
arrive alone. But the English are so droll!"

In a few minutes he returned.

"Now, Ma'mselle, here is a coach. The
driver is my friend; he will see you safe.
You may trust him. I would go with you
myself, but—"

"You have been very kind to me," said
Agnes, gratefully. Her command of French
was very limited, and she said this in
English; but the look that accompanied it spoke
the language which needs no interpreter.

"Pardon. No thanks; it is my duty.
Ma'mselle is too generous! There is no
occasion." And the gallant conductor put
back the five-franc piece that Agnes tendered
with some embarrassment; for, during the
journey he had shown her kindness that she
felt could not be repaid in money. She took
from her purse a half-crown piece English
money. This the conductor put into his left
waistcoat-pocket, as he said "for a
remembrance of Ma'mselle."

The hackney-coach soon arrived at
Raymond's. A grand-looking servant came to
the door of the coach, and inquired her
pleasure, with an elaborate politeness that would
have been overwhelming at any other time;
but Agnes scarcely noticed him. She eagerly
handed him Mrs. Warren's card; but what
little French she could command had entirely
departed, and she could not utter a word.
The garçon took the card, looked at it with
a slight gesture of surprise, and returned to
the house. In the meantime the coachman
dismounted, took down the modest luggage,
and demanded his fare. Agnes alighted,
gave the man what he asked, and he had just
driven away, when the garçon returned,
accompanied by another.

"Ma'mselle is under a meestake," said the
new comer, who evidently believed that he
spoke English like a native. "Madame
Warren is no more here—she departed two
days since for Marseilles."

Agnes looked stupidly at him. She had
heard what he said perfectly, and she was
quite calm; but it was the calmness that
makes the heart stand still, and turns the life
within to stone.

"She told me to come here. She knew I
was to come." Agnes spoke with stiffened
lips and a voice that did net seem her own.

"She may have left some message—some
letter for Ma'mselle," suggested the first
garçon. "I will inquire."

Agues sat down upon her trunk. She felt
convinced that Mrs. Warren had gone and
left no directions about her. She had just
five francs and half a guinea left of money.
Her position presented itself to her with
perfect lucidity; but she felt no alarm,
only a horrible stillness and paralysis of all
emotion.

The garçon returned: he had a letter in
his hand. Madame Warren had departed
for Marseilles, en route for Sicily. She had
left no message or direction. That letter had
arrived a few hours after her departure, but
they did not know where to forward it.

Agnes looked at the letter. It was her
own, stating the time she would arrive in
Paris, and requesting to be met. She gave
it back to the garçon without speaking, and
rested her head dreamily and wearily upon
her hand.

The sight of a young and extremely pretty
English girl in deep mourning and sitting
upon her trunk, had by this time attracted