"Where have you been? Your wife is waiting."

"My wife?" He looked round bewildered, as if the words struck him with
the awful irrevocable sense of what was done. Hurriedly he ran down the
steps, sprang into the carriage beside Agatha, and they drove away.

Through many streets and squares they passed, for the breakfast was
to be at Emma's house. Agatha sat for the first time alone with her
husband. The sun just coming out threw a soft crimson light through the
closed carriage blinds; the very air felt warm and sweet, like love.
Agatha's heart was stirred with a new tenderness towards him into whose
keeping she had just given her whole life.

For a little while she sat, her eyes cast down, wondering what he would
say or do, whether he would take her hand, or draw her softly to his
breast and let her cry her heart out there, as she almost longed to
do--poor fatherless, motherless, brotherless, sisterless girl, who in
her husband alone must concentrate every earthly tie.

But he never spoke--never moved. He leaned back in the carriage as pale
as death, his lips rigidly shut together, his eyes shut too, except that
now and then they opened and closed again, to show that he was not in a
state of total unconsciousness. But towards his young wife no look ever
once wandered.

At length he started as from a trance and saw her sitting there, very
quiet, for the pride of her nature was beginning to rise at this strange
treatment from him to whom she had just given herself--her all. She was
nervously moving the fingers of her left hand, where the newly placed
ring felt heavy and strange.

Nathanael snatched the hand with violence.

"Agatha,--are you not my Agatha? Tell me the truth--the whole truth. I
will have it from you!"

"Mr. Harper!" she exclaimed, half frightened, half angry.

His long, searching gaze tried to read her every feature--her pale
cheeks--her lips proud, nay, almost sullen--her eyes, from which the
softness so lately visible had changed into inquietude and trouble.
There was in her all maidenly innocence--no one could doubt that; but
nothing could be more unlike the shy tenderness of a bride, loving, and
married for love.

Slowly, slowly, the young bridegroom's gaze fell from her, and his
thoughts settled into dull conviction. All his violence ceased, leaving
an icy composure, which in itself bore the omen of its lasting stay.

"Forgive me," he said, in a kind but cold voice, while his vehement
gras