gether by the sympathy arising from
mutual danger.

CHAPTER VII.

"Letters from home at last," said Arthur Bernard, as he entered the
private salon of an hotel, located in a pretty town in the south of
France.

"I had begun to think our friends had quite forgotten us," he continued,
addressing his sister, who, seated in a recess formed by a large
bow-window, had been anxiously watching for his return.

"You have not opened any of them yet," she said, as she came eagerly
forward to receive her share.

"No;" was the reply. "I knew how anxiously you were waiting, and
hastened that we might read them together."

"Always thoughtful, dear brother, of my comfort, you quite spoil me,"
said Ella, with an affectionate smile, but in a tone, whose subdued
sound, proved a striking contrast to her former vivacity.

For the next few moments silence reigned in the apartment, for each were
busily engaged in perusing their respective epistles.

It was broken at length by an exclamation from Ella, which arrested her
brother's attention, and looking up from the opened sheet he held in his
hand, he ejaculated with alarm,--

"For pity's sake, Ella, what is the matter?" for his sister's cheek had
become colorless as marble, and sinking into a seat, she burst into a
passion of tears.

Still more alarmed, he laid down the letter, and advancing to her,
implored her to tell him the cause of her agitation.

"Read for yourself," she said, "for I cannot bear to speak of it. Oh,
Agnes, Agnes!"

A fresh mist of tears followed these words.

"Agnes, what of her?" and Arthur's cheek became almost as blanched as
his sister's, and his hand trembled as he grasped the fatal manuscript.
He seemed to forget that the name might belong to some other than Miss
Wiltshire, for among the circle of their acquaintance there were two or
three with a similar designation, but in his inmost thoughts, though he
had never thus addressed her, he had been so accustomed to associate it
with the remembrance of herself, that it had become dear and sacred as a
household word, and when his sister's ejaculation of "Agnes, Agnes," met
his ear, he never dreamed of other, for

"There was but one such name for him
So soft, so kind, so eloquent."

The letter was from a lady acquaintance of Ella's, written in a fine
Italian hand, not very intelligible, and crossed and re-crossed in a
most elaborate manner.

"Commend me to a lady's epistle," he said,