“Before I can write all I have to say, I must be sure of my messenger.  I am boarding in a convent, and am very well treated, and I enjoy excellent health in spite of the anxiety of my mind.  The superior has been instructed to forbid me all visitors and correspondence.  I am, however, already certain of being able to write to you, notwithstanding these very strict orders.  I entertain no doubt of your good faith, my beloved husband, and I feel sure that you will never doubt a heart which is wholly yours.  Trust to me for the execution of whatever you may wish me to do, for I am yours and only yours.  Answer only a few words until we are quite certain of our messenger.

“Muran, June 12th.”

In less than three weeks my young friend had become a clever moralist; it is true that Love had been her teacher, and Love alone can work miracles.  As I concluded the reading of her letter, I was in the state of a criminal pardoned at the foot of the scaffold.  I required several minutes before I recovered the exercise of my will and my presence of mind.

I turned towards the messenger, and asked her if she could read.

“Ah, sir! if I could not read, it would be a great misfortune for me.  There are seven women appointed for the service of the nuns of Muran.  One of us comes in turn to Venice once a week; I come every Wednesday, and this day week I shall be able to bring you an answer to the letter which, if you like, you can write now.”

“Then you can take charge of the letters entrusted to you by the nuns?”

“That is not supposed to be one of our duties but the faithful delivery of letters being the most important of the commissions committed to our care, we should not be trusted if we could not read the address of the letters placed in our hands.  The nuns wanted to be sure that we shall not give to Peter the letter addressed to Paul.  The good mothers are always afraid of our being guilty of such blunders.  Therefore I shall be here again, without fail, this day week at the same hour, but please to order your servant to wake you in case you should be asleep, for our time is measured as if it were gold.  Above all, rely entirely upon my discretion as long as you employ me; for if I did not know how to keep a silent tongue in my head I should lose my bread, and then what would become of me—­a widow with four children, a boy eight years old, and three pretty girls, the eldest of whom is only sixteen?  You can see them when you come to Muran.  I live near the church, on the garden side, and I am always at home when I am not engaged in the service of the nuns, who are always sending me on one commission or another.  The young lady—­I do not know her name yet, for she has only been one week with us—­gave me this letter, but so cleverly!  Oh! she must be as witty as she is pretty, for three nuns who were there were completely bamboozled.  She gave it to me with this other letter for myself, which I likewise