aughter,' said Lady Annabel; 'counsel me, for my
mind trembles; anxiety has weakened it. Nay, I beseech you, speak.
Speak, speak, Venetia. What shall I do?'

'Mother, I will never say anything again but that I love you!'

'I see the holy father in the distance. Let us walk to him, my child,
and meet him.'

Accordingly Lady Annabel, now leaning on Venetia, approached the monk.
About five minutes elapsed before they reached him, during which not a
word was spoken.

'Holy father,' said Lady Annabel, in a tone of firmness that surprised
her daughter and made her tremble with anticipation, 'you know the
writer of this letter?'

'He is my friend of many years, lady,' replied the Armenian; 'I knew
him in America. I owe to him my life, and more than my life. There
breathes not his equal among men.'

A tear started to the eye of Lady Annabel; she recalled the terms in
which the household at Arqua had spoken of Herbert. 'He is in Venice?'
she inquired.

'He is within these walls,' the monk replied.

Venetia, scarcely able to stand, felt her mother start. After a
momentary pause, Lady Annabel said, 'Can I speak with him, and alone?'

Nothing but the most nervous apprehension of throwing any obstacle in
the way of the interview could have sustained Venetia. Quite pale,
with her disengaged hand clenched, not a word escaped her lips. She
hung upon the answer of the monk.

'You can see him, and alone,' said the monk. 'He is now in the
sacristy. Follow me.'

'Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, 'remain in this garden. I will accompany
this holy man. Stop! embrace me before I go, and,' she added, in a
whisper, 'pray for me.'

It needed not the admonition of her mother to induce Venetia to seek
refuge in prayer, in this agony of her life. But for its salutary and
stilling influence, it seemed to her that she must have forfeited all
control over her mind. The suspense was too terrible for human aid to
support her. Seated by the sea-side, she covered her face with her
hands, and invoked the Supreme assistance. More than an hour passed
away. Venetia looked up. Two beautiful birds, of strange form and
spotless plumage, that perhaps had wandered from the Aegean, were
hovering over her head, bright and glancing in the sun. She accepted
their appearance as a good omen. At this moment she heard a voice,
and, looking up, observed a monk in the distance, beckoning to her.
She rose, and with a trembling step approached him. He retired, sti