Years went by, and on the day we first introduced her she was
twenty-two years old. Her own mother and Mr. Arnold had passed away
and were laid away to sleep in the dust close by the little Agnes of
old. But like the ivy and the flowers which grew over all their
graves, each advancing year made stouter and stronger the invisible
ivy that bound Agnes' heart and Mrs. Arnold's heart together, and the
same advancing year rendered sweeter and sweeter the fragrance of
those unseen yet ever-present buds and blossoms, that created a
perpetual summer in their minds and affections.

"Mother," said Agnes as she entered the library and drew up a chair
close to Mrs. Arnold's, "I wish to ask your advice about the affair
between George and me. Do you think I ought to take any more notice of
him or Sophia?"

"Well, I scarcely can speak to you advisedly, Agnes, on such a
matter," said Mrs. Arnold. "You are aware that my first and last
thoughts are for your happiness. But, from what I know of the
circumstances, I do not see that you can make any move either one way
or another without sacrificing your feelings unjustly."

"I have kept back nothing from you, mother," replied Agnes; "you know
all, just as well as I do myself."

"Then I think you did perfectly right, Agnes, darling. Your course has
my emphatic approval. I can appreciate perfectly that it must cause
you to feel wretchedly for some time; but the self-satisfaction it
must eventually bring you, will gradually but surely overcome the
first disappointment and regret, just as the ever-shining sun pierces
and dissipates the heaviest storm cloud."

"Well, mother, I will await the turn of events, and whichever way,
whether for weal or for woe, I shall abide it. But should I lose
George through this, I shall never risk a second such mental agony
with any one else."

"Ah," smiled Mrs. Arnold, kissing Agnes, gayly, "young hearts like
yours are not so brittle as to be easily shattered. Better fish in the
sea, et cetera. You know the old adage--but there's the postman, dear;
you run and get the letters he has."

Agnes did as her mother requested her, and in a few moments more
re-entered the room with four letters in one hand, and one letter in
the other. The single missive was directed to herself, in a
chirography which she well knew. Giving the four to her mother, she
sat down and opened her own. It was couched in cold, formal words,
instead of gushing sentences as usual, and to