eneath this picture was the ensuing
inscription:--"F. W., _January 7th, 1516. His last day thus._"

There was another feature in that apartment to which we must likewise
direct our reader's attention, ere we pursue the thread of our
narrative. This was an object hanging against the wall, next to the
second portrait just now described. It also had the appearance of being
a picture--or at all events a frame of the same dimensions as the
others; but whether that frame contained a painting, or whether it were
empty, it was impossible to say, so long as it remained concealed by the
large black cloth which covered it, and which was carefully fastened by
small silver nails at each corner.

This strange object gave a lugubrious and sinister appearance to a room
in other respects cheerful, gay, and elegant.

But to resume our tale.

When Agnes awoke from her stupor, she found herself reclining on a soft
ottoman of purple velvet, fringed with gold; and the handsome stranger,
who had borne her from the church, was bathing her brow with water which
he took from a crystal vase on a marble table.

As she slowly and languidly opened her large hazel eyes, her thoughts
collected themselves in the gradient manner; and when her glance
encountered that of her unknown friend, who was bending over her with an
expression of deep interest on his features, there flashed upon her mind
a recollection of all that had so recently taken place.

"Where am I?" she demanded, starting up, and casting her eyes wildly
around her.

"In the abode of one who will not injure you," answered the stranger, in
a kind and melodious tone.

"But who are you? and wherefore have you brought me hither?" exclaimed
Agnes. "Oh! remember--you spoke of that old man--my grandfather--the
shepherd of the Black Forest----"

"You shall see him--you shall be restored to him," answered the
stranger.

"But will he receive me--will he not spurn me from him?" asked Agnes, in
a wildly impassioned--almost hysterical tone.

"The voice of pity cannot refuse to heave a sigh for thy fall," was the
response. "If thou wast guilty in abandoning one who loved thee so
tenderly, and whose earthly reliance was on thee, he, whom you did so
abandon, has not the less need to ask pardon of thee. For he speedily
forgot his darling Agnes--he traveled the world over, yet sought her
not--her image was, as it were, effaced from his memory. But when
accident----"

"Oh! signor, you are mista