t over to examine it.
It was an ordinary envelope and, no doubt, contained a letter. For whom
was it intended? Obviously for one of the pupils. It was a clandestine
epistle, too, otherwise it would have come by the regular channel
through the post office. Perhaps it was a love letter. At this thought
she gave a guilty start and gazed piercingly into the chestnut tree, but
nothing was visible there save boughs and leaves. After all, the epistle
was, doubtless, destined for some swarthy-visaged Italian beauty, and
many such were in the convent school. That it had fallen at her feet was
certainly but a mere coincidence. It was not, it could not be intended
for her! Its rightful owner, who had clearly received many similar notes
in the same way, knew where it was and presently would come for it. The
envelope had fallen face downward, and she could not see the address.
She touched it with her foot, then cautiously turned it with the tip of
her shoe. She saw writing. It was the address. Somehow the arrangement
of the characters seemed familiar to her, though she was so dazed and
confused she could not make out the name. Her curiosity was unworthy of
her, she knew, unworthy of Monte-Cristo's daughter. What right had she
to pry into the heart secret of one of her school companions? Still she
gazed; she could not help it. Suddenly she stooped and took the envelope
from the ground. The address riveted her eyes like a magician's spell.
Great heavens! it was her own name--Zuleika!

Hurriedly snapping the slight string that bound the envelope to the
stone, she thrust the former into the bosom of her dress. Then she
glanced around her, half-fearing she had been seen by some of the pupils
or the watchful Sister Agatha. But no, she was unobserved, and even now
her companions and the nun were at such a distance that she could read
her letter without the slightest danger of being discovered or
interrupted. The temptation was strong. She yielded to it. She would
read the letter. She felt convinced that it was from the Viscount
Massetti, and the conviction filled her with unutterable joy. She had
not heard a word concerning him since she had been immured within the
sombre walls of that dismal convent, and now she had tidings of him in
his own handwriting! It was rapture! What had he written to her? An
assurance of his love, no doubt, and, perhaps, an exhortation to her to
keep her part of their agreement--to love no other man, to encourage