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 nocturnal intrusion was followed quickly by others! He assumed his old ascendancy over me. The past became like an unpleasant dream in my mind, dimly remembered, but never distinctly recalled. Occasionally, however, a sharp doubt obtruded itself, and roused me for an instant. One evening I ventured to ask: “Richard, why are your visits so brief, and made only in the night?” “Why?” he repeated, as if startled by the suddenness of the question, then adding carelessly: “Because you always have that deuced old fellow, Monsieur Pilot, running here. I am not very jealous, yet it would torment me to meet one who dares raise his thoughts to my Agnes. He wants to marry you. Do dismiss him!” This conjecture proved true, and I was obliged to give a cold rebuff to the man who had befriended me. It is possible Richard Bristed did not care to be recognized by his brother’s agent, but I did not think of this at that time. CHAPTER XI.