"You, citizeness," he exclaimed in unfeigned surprise, "what should
procure a poor public writer the honour of--"

"Hush, in God's name!" broke in the young girl quickly as she cast a
rapid, furtive glance up and down the quai and the narrow streets which
converged at this angle.

She was dressed in the humblest and poorest of clothes, her skimpy shawl
round her shoulders could scarce protect her against the cold of this
cruel winter's morning; her hair was entirely hidden beneath a frilled
and starched cap, and her feet were encased in coarse worsted stockings
and sabots, but her hands were delicate and fine, and her face had that
nobility of feature and look of patient resignation in the midst of
overwhelming sorrow which proclaimed a lofty refinement both of soul and
of mind.

The old Letter-Writer was surveying the pathetic young figure before him
through his huge horn-rimmed spectacles, and she smiled on him through
her fast-gathering tears. He used to have his pitch at the angle of the
Pont Neuf, and whenever Agnes had walked past it, she had nodded to him
and bidden him "Good morrow!" He had at times done little commissions
for her and gone on errands when she needed a messenger; to-day, in the
midst of her despair, she had suddenly thought of him and that rumour
credited him with certain knowledge which she would give her all to
possess.

She had sallied forth this morning with the express purpose of speaking
with him; but now suddenly she felt afraid, and stood looking at him for
a moment or two, hesitating, wondering if she dared tell him--one never
knew these days into what terrible pitfall an ill-considered word might