yself on having acquired a wisdom and
sedateness such as ten years of quiet experience could not have given me.
But of this I was lamentably mistaken.

Of my silly yielding to circumstances which follow, the reader must not
judge too harshly. I was still but an immature woman, not yet twenty; the
glamour of youth still hung over me. I craved human love, and took the
first that presented itself, just as any other ardent, imaginative girl
in my place would have done.

One night late in autumn, when the sharp winds were already giving
signals of the coming winter, of leafless trees and frozen ground,
feeling the usual sadness which accompanies this season of the year, I
walked out upon the piazza in front of the house, looking down upon the
street. I thought the keen air would put my blood in more active
circulation, and thus dispel from my mind the brown and yellow fancies
that filled it as the dying leaves of October strewed the ground.

My pupils had all retired to their rooms, and relieved of my charge, my
thoughts were free to recreate. I walked quickly back and forth, drawing
in long draughts of the invigorating air, and reviewing the morning's
duties. While thus engaged, my attention was arrested by the appearance
of a tall man on the opposite side of the street, standing still and
watching me. As he caught my startled gaze he lifted his hat and bowed,
and before I had time to reflect on his strange proceedings, had crossed
the street and was standing on the pavement below.

"Agnes!"

My God, he called me by name! My blood became like ice. Shaking from head
to foot I covered my eyes with my hands, and would have run in, but the
whistling wind brought the cry again:

"Agnes! Let me speak with you."

Quick as the words were uttered the dark figure mounted the stone steps,
only the little iron railing of the balcony dividing us.

I knew then who it was.

"Will you open the door, or shall I?" said a voice which I remembered too
well.

I saw no alternative, without disturbing the neighborhood and betraying
myself; so, like a criminal, I stepped softly to the hall and unlocked
the door. He came in with a light, free step, and seated himself upon a
couch with the ease of an old friend and accomplished gentleman. It was
Richard Bristed!

I will not detail what passed at this interview. But I fell again under
his fascination; his magnetic presence lulled my faculties, and, alas, I
must relate that this nocturn