’I have had a charming letter from the bride, this morning, dated Cologne.  You cannot think how artlessly and prettily she assures me of her happiness.  Some people, as they say in Ireland, are born to good luck—­and I think Arthur Barville is one of them.

’When you next write, I hope to hear that you are in better health and spirits, and that you continue to like your employment.  Believe me, sincerely your friend,—­A.  L.’

Agnes had just closed and directed her letter, when the eldest of her three pupils entered the room with the startling announcement that Lord Montbarry’s travelling-servant had arrived from Paris!  Alarmed by the idea that some misfortune had happened, she ran out to meet the man in the hall.  Her face told him how seriously he had frightened her, before she could speak.  ‘There’s nothing wrong, Miss,’ he hastened to say.  ’My lord and my lady are enjoying themselves at Paris.  They only want you and the young ladies to be with them.’  Saying these amazing words, he handed to Agnes a letter from Lady Montbarry.

‘Dearest Agnes,’ (she read), ’I am so charmed with the delightful change in my life—­it is six years, remember, since I last travelled on the Continent—­that I have exerted all my fascinations to persuade Lord Montbarry to go on to Venice.  And, what is more to the purpose, I have actually succeeded!  He has just gone to his room to write the necessary letters of excuse in time for the post to England.  May you have as good a husband, my dear, when your time comes!  In the mean while, the one thing wanting now to make my happiness complete, is to have you and the darling children with us.  Montbarry is just as miserable without them as I am—­though he doesn’t confess it so freely.  You will have no difficulties to trouble you.  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.