with us," said M. Raymond. "Come back to
us if you are unhappy."

That night Agnes wrote to her aunt the
history of all that had befallen her, and the
friends who had been raised up to her, and
the home that had offered in a land of
strangers. But, with all this cause for
thankfulness, Agnes cried herself to sleep that
night. She realised for the first time that
she was alone in her life, and belonged to
nobody.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

ALL who have had to live under the dynasty
of a peculiar temper, know that it can neither
be defined nor calculated upon. It is the
knot in the wood that prevents the material
from ever being turned to any good account.
Madame Tremordyn always declared that she
was the least exacting person in existence;
and, so long as Agnes was always in the
room with her, always on the alert watching
her eye for anything she might need
—so long Madame was quite satisfied.
Madame Tremordyn had a passion for everything
English. She would be read aloud
to at all hours of the day or night. Agnes
slept upon a bed in her room, whence she
might be roused, if Madame Tremordyn
herself could not rest; and woe to Agnes
if her attention flagged, and if she did
not seem to feel interest and enjoyment
in whatever the book in hand might be—
whether it were the History of Miss Betty
Thoughtless, or the Economy of Human Life.
Madame Tremordyn took the life of Agnes,
and crumbled it away: she used it up like
a choice condiment, to give a flavour to
her own.

Yet, with all this exigence, Agnes was
nothing to Madame Tremordyn, who considered
her much as she did the gown she wore,
or the dinner she ate. She was one of the many
comforts with which she had surrounded
herself; she gave Agnes no more regard or
confidence, notwithstanding their close
intercourse, than she granted to her arm-chair, or
to the little dog that stood on its hind legs.
Yet, Agnes had no material hardship to
complain of; she only felt as if the breath
were being drawn out of her, and she were
slowly suffocating. But where else could she
go? what could she do? At length,
Madame Tremordyn fell really ill, and required
constant nursing and tending. Agnes had
sleepless nights, as well as watchful days, but
it was a more defined state of existence.
Agnes was a capital nurse; the old lady
was human, after all, and was touched by
skill and kindness. She declared that Agnes
seemed to nurse her as if she liked it.

Henceforth Agnes had not to live in
a state of moral starvation. The old lady
treated her like a human being, and really
felt an interest in her. She asked her
questions about home, and about her aunt
and cousin; also, she told Agnes about
herself, about her son, and about her late
husband. She spoke of her own affairs and of
her own experiences. It was egotism
certainly; but egotism that asks for sympathy
is the one touch of nature which makes the
whole world kin. Agnes grew less unhappy
as she felt she became more necessary to the
strange exacting old woman with whom her
lot was cast. She had the pleasure of sending
remittances to her aunt and cousin—proofs
of her material well-being; and she always
wrote cheerfully to them. Occasionally, but
very rarely, she was allowed to go and visit
her friends the Raymonds.

No news ever came of Mrs. Warren. She
might have been a myth; so completely
had she passed away. There had been an
admixture of accident in her neglect; but it
was accident that rather aggravated than
excused her conduct. The day after she
wrote so warmly to Agnes to come to her
in Paris, Sir Edward Destrayes came
to her, and entreated her to go to his
mother, who was ill; and Mrs. Warren was
her most intimate friend: indeed, they were
strangers in Paris, and Mrs. Warren was
nearly the only person they knew. Lady
Destrayes was ordered to the South of France
—would dear, kind Mrs. Warren go with
her? It would be the greatest kindness in
the world! Mrs. Warren spoke French so
beautifully, and neither mother nor son spoke
it at all. Sir Edward Destrayes was some
years younger than Mrs. Warren. The world,
if it had been ill-natured, might have said he
was a mere boy to her; nevertheless, Mrs.
Warren was in love with him, and she
hoped it was nothing but his bashfulness
that hindered him from declaring
himself in love with her. Gladly would she
have agreed to the proposed journey; but
there was that invitation to Agnes.
She must await her answer. Agnes, as
we have seen, accepted the offer, which Mrs.
Warren felt to be provoking enough—Lady
Destrayes needed her so much! What was
to be done? A certain Madame de Brissac,
to whom she confided her dilemma, offered to
take Agnes into her own nursery (without
salary) until a better place could be found.
Mrs. Warren was enchanted: nothing could
be better. She wrote a note to Agnes,
telling her she had found her a situation
with Madame de Brissac; where she hoped
she would be happy, and enclosed her some
money, along with Madame de Brissac's
address. The preparations for departure were
hurried; for the party set out some days
earlier than was intended. Agnes and her
concerns passed entirely from Mrs. Warren's
mind. Six weeks afterwards, searching her
portfolio, a letter fell out with the seal
unbroken; it was her own letter to Agnes.
The sight of it turned her sick. She did
not dare to think of what might have
happened. She sat for a few moments stupified,
and then hastily flung the accusing letter into