echanically; and her unknown friend led her
toward the portrait of the old man of ninety.

Agnes recognized the countenance at a single glance, and would have
fallen upon the floor had not her companion supported her in his arms.

Tears again came to her relief; but hastily wiping them away, she
extended her arms passionately toward the portrait, exclaiming, "Oh! now
I comprehend you, signor! my grandsire lives in this dwelling
indeed--beneath this roof; but lives only in that picture! Alas! alas!
It was thus, no doubt, that the poor old man seemed when he was
abandoned by me--the lost, the guilty Agnes! It was thus that he sat in
his lonely dwelling--crushed and overwhelmed by the black ingratitude of
his granddaughter! Oh! that I had never seen this portrait--this
perpetuation of so much loneliness and so much grief! Ah! too faithful
delineation of that sad scene which was wrought by me--vainly penitent
that I am!"

And covering her face with her hands she threw herself on her knees
before the portrait, and gave way to all the bitterness and all the
wildness of her grief.

The stranger interrupted her not for some minutes: he allowed the flood
of that anguish to have its full vent: but when it was partially
subsiding he approached the kneeling penitent, raised her gently, and
said, "Despair not! your grandsire lives."

"He lives!" she repeated, her countenance once more expressing radiant
hope, as the sudden gleam of sunshine bursts forth amidst the last drops
of the April shower.

But, almost at the same instant that she uttered those words, her eyes
caught sight of the inscription at the foot of the picture; and,
bounding forward she read it aloud.

"Holy Virgin! I am deceived--basely, vilely deceived!" she continued,
all the violence of her grief, which had begun to ebb so rapidly, now
flowing back upon her soul; then turning abruptly round upon the
stranger, she said in a hoarse hollow tone: "Signor, wherefore thus
ungenerously trifle with my feelings--my best feelings? Who art thou?
what would'st thou with me? and wherefore is that portrait here?"

"Agnes--Agnes!" exclaimed her companion, "compose yourself, I implore
you! I do not trifle with you--I do not deceive you! Your grandsire,
Fernand Wagner, is alive--and in this house. You shall see him
presently; but in the meantime, listen to what I am about to say."

Agnes placed her finger impatiently upon the inscription at the bottom
of the portrait, an