a group of curious spectators. The fate of
Agnes Lee was trembling in the balance.
Already, a man, no longer young, who had
lost his front teeth, and who looked as if he
had no bones in his body, and a woman with
a hard, insolent, determined face, varnished
with cajolery, approached her. The woman
addressed her in passably good English, but
Agnes seemed not to hear. At this crisis a
grave, middle-aged man made his way from
the street. He looked round with surprise
at the persons crowding in the court, and his
eye fell on Agnes. He went up to her. The
man and woman both shrank back from his
glance.

"What is the meaning of all this, my
child? How came you here, and what do
you want?"

He spoke with a certain benevolent austerity.
His tone roused Agnes; she looked up
and passed her hand in a bewildered way
over her forehead; but she could not recollect
or explain her story. Mechanically she
gave him Mrs. Warren's letter directing her
to the Hotel Raymond, and looked acutely at
him as his eye glanced over it.

"My poor child, you cannot remain here.
They ought not to have left you here for
a moment. You must come in and speak
to my wife. We will see what can be
done."

The loiterers dispersed—the new-comer
was the proprietor of the hotel. Desiring a
porter to take up her trunk, he led her into
a private office, where a pleasant looking
woman of about forty sat at a desk
surrounded by account-books and ledgers. She
looked up from her writing as they entered.
He spoke to her in a low voice, and gave her
the letter to read.

"Mais c'est une infamie!" said she,
vehemently, when she had read it. You have
done well to bring her in—it was worthy of
you, my friend. Heavens! she is stupefied
with cold and fear!"

Agnes stood still, apparently unconscious
of what was passing; she heard, but she
could give no sign. At length sight and
sound became confused, and she fell.

When she recovered, she was lying in bed,
and a pleasant-looking nurse was sitting
beside her, dressed in a tall white Normandy
cap and striped jacket. She nodded and
smiled, and showed her white teeth, when
Agnes opened her eyes, shook her head, and
jabbered something that Agnes could not
comprehend. The girl felt too weak and too
dreamy to attempt to unravel the mystery
of where she was and how she came
there. In a short time, the lady she had
seen sitting in the office amongst the
day-books and ledgers came in. She laid her
hand gently on her forehead, saying, in a
cheerful voice, "You are better now. You
are with friends. You shall tell us your
story when you are stronger. You must not
agitate yourself."

Agnes endeavoured to rise, but sank
back; the long journey and the severe
shock she had received had made her
seriously ill. The doctor who had been called
to revive her from her long trance-like swoon
ordered the profoundest quiet, and, thanks to
the Samaritan kindness of her new friends,
Agnes was enabled to follow the doctor's
directions: for two days she lay in a delightful
state of repose, between waking and
dreaming. Everything she needed was brought
to her, as by some friendly magic, at
precisely the right moment. On the third day
she felt almost well, and expressed a wish to
get up and dress. Her hostess took her down
to a pleasant parlour beyond the office. There
were books, and prints, and newspapers; she
was desired to amuse herself, and not to
trouble her head with any anxiety about the
future: she was a visitor.

M. Raymond, the proprietor, came in.
Agnes had not seen him since the day he
brought her into his house. He was a grave
sensible man. To him she told her whole
story, and gave him Mrs. Warren's letters
to read. " My good young lady," said he, as
he returned them, "we have only a little
strength, and should not waste it in
superfluities; we need it all to do our simple duty.
This lady was too fond of the luxury of doing
good, as it is called; but I cannot understand
her thoughtlessness. There must be
some mistake; though, after incurring the
responsibility of sending for you, no mistake
ought to have been possible."

Agnes tried to express all the gratitude
she felt; but M. Raymond interrupted her.
She was far from realising all the danger
she had escaped; she knew it in after years.
"I shall write home," she said; "my aunt
and cousin will be anxious until they hear."

"Let them be uneasy a little longer, till
you can tell them something definite about
your prospects. Anything you could say now
would only alarm them."

Two days afterwards M. Raymond came
to her and said, "Do not think we want to
get rid of you; but, if it suits you, I have
heard of a situation. Madame Tremordyn
wants a companion—a young lady who will
be to her as like a daughter as can be
got for money. She is a good woman, but
proud and peculiar; and, so long as her son
does not fall in love with you, she will treat
you well. The son is with his regiment in
Algiers just now; so you are safe. I will take
you to her this afternoon."

They went accordingly. Madame
Tremordyn—an old Bréton lady, stately with
grey hair and flashing dark grey eyes,
dressed in stiff black silk—received her with
stately urbanity, explained the duties of her
situation, and expressed her wish that Agnes
should engage with her. The salary was
liberal, and Agnes thankfully accepted the
offer. It was settled that she should come
the next morning. "Recollect your home is