y put the whole story together for the amusement of the lower
regions; and when Agatha retired to rest she was quite sure that the
whole house, down to the little maid who waited on herself, was fully
aware of the important fact that Miss Bowen was going to be married to
Mr. Locke Harper.

This annoyed her--she had not expected it. But she bore it stoically as
a necessary evil. Only sometimes she thought how different all things
were, seen afar and near; and faintly sighed for that long ago lost
picture of wakening fancy--the Arcadian, impossible love-dream.

She sat up till after midnight, writing to Emma Thorny-croft, the
only near friend to whom she had to write, the news of her
engagement--information that for many reasons she preferred giving
by pen, not words. Finishing, she put her blind aside to have one
freshening look at the trees in the square. It was quite cloudless now,
the moon being just rising--the same moon that Agatha had seen, as a
bright slender line appearing at street corners, on the Midsummer night
when she and Nathariael Harper walked home together. She felt a deep
interest in that especial moon, which seemed between its dawning and
waning to have comprised the whole fate of her life.

Quietly opening the window, she leant out gazing at the moonlight, as
foolish girls will--yet who does not remember, half pathetically, those
dear old follies!

"Heigho! I wonder what will be the end of it all!" said Agatha Bowen;
without specifying what the pronoun "it" alluded to.

But she stopped, hearing a footstep rather policeman-like passing up and
down the railing under the trees. And as after a while he crossed the
street--she saw that the "policeman" had the very unprofessional
appearance of a cloak and long fair hair:--Agatha's cheek burned; she
shut down the window and blind, and relighted the candle. But her heart
beat fast--it was so strange, so new, to be the object of such love.
"However, I suppose I shall get used to it--besides--oh, how good he
is!"

And the genuine reverence of her heart conquered its touch of feminine
vanity; which, perhaps, had he known.

Nathanael would have done wiser in going to bed like a Christian, than
in wandering like a heathen idolater round his beloved's shrine. But,
however her pride may have been flattered, it is certain that Agatha
went to sleep with tears, innocent and tender enough to serve as mirrors
for watching night-angels, lying on her cheek.

The