She started in her sleep, she awoke, she dreamed they had come home.  She rose and looked at the progress of the night.  The night was waning fast; a grey light was on the landscape; the point of day approached.  Venetia stole softly to her mother’s room, and entered it with a soundless step.  Lady Annabel had not retired to bed.  She had sat up the whole night, and was now asleep.  A lamp on a small table was burning at her side, and she held, firmly grasped in her hand, the letter of her husband, which he had addressed to her at Venice, and which she had been evidently reading.  A tear glided down the cheek of Venetia as she watched her mother retaining that letter with fondness even in her sleep, and when she thought of all the misery, and heartaches, and harrowing hours that had preceded its receipt, and which Venetia believed that letter had cured for ever.  What misery awaited them now?  Why were they watchers of the night?  She shuddered when these dreadful questions flitted through her mind.  She shuddered and sighed.  Her mother started, and woke.

‘Who is there?’ inquired Lady Annabel.

‘Venetia.’

‘My child, have you not slept?’

‘Yes, mother, and I woke refreshed, as I hope you do.’

‘I wake with trust in God’s mercy,’ said Lady Annabel.  ’Tell me the hour.’

‘It is just upon dawn, mother.’

‘Dawn! no one has returned, or come.’

‘The house is still, mother.’

‘I would you were in bed, my child.’

‘Mother, I can sleep no more.  I wish to be with you;’ and Venetia seated herself at her mother’s feet, and reclined her head upon her mother’s knee.

‘I am glad the night has passed, Venetia,’ said Lady Annabel, in a suppressed yet solemn tone.  ‘It has been a trial.’  And here she placed the letter in her bosom.  Venetia could only answer with a sigh.

‘I wish Pauncefort would come,’ said Lady Annabel; ’and yet I do not like to rouse her, she was up so late, poor creature!  If it be the dawn I should like to send out messengers again; something may be heard at Spezzia.’

‘Vicenzo thinks they have gone to Leghorn, mother.’

‘Has he heard anything!’ said Lady Annabel, eagerly.

‘No, but he is an excellent judge,’ said Venetia, repeating all Pauncefort’s consolatory chatter.  ’He knows the coast so well.  He says he is sure the wind would carry them on to Leghorn; and that accounts, you know, mother, for George not returning.  They are all at Leghorn.’

‘Would that George would return,’ murmured Lady Annabel; ’I wish I could see again that sailor who said they were at Lerici.  He was an intelligent man.’

‘Perhaps if we send down to the bay he may be there,’ said Venetia.’

‘Hush!  I hear a step!’ said Lady Annabel.

Venetia sprung up and opened the door, but it was only Pauncefort in the vestibule.