im down at once as unworthy the name of
friend. Then--what friend had she? Not one--not one in the world.

In this strait, strangely, temptingly sweet seemed to come the words,
"_I love you; no man will ever love you better than I._"

To one whose heart is altogether free, the knowledge of being deeply
loved, and by a man whose attachment would do honour to any woman, is
a thought so soothing, so alluring, that from it spring half the
marriages--not strictly love-marriages--which take place in the world;
sometimes, though not always, ending in real happiness.

Agatha began to consider that it would seem very odd if she wrote to Mr.
Harper, in his home, among his family. Perhaps his sisters might notice
her handwriting--a useless fear, since they had never seen it; and at
all events it would be a pity to trouble his happiness in that pleasant
visit, by conveying prematurely the news of his rejection. She would
wait, and give him no answer for at least a day or two; it was such a
bitter thing to inflict pain on any human being, especially on one so
gentle and good as Nathanael Harper.

With this determination she went to sleep. She woke next morning, having
a confused sense that something had happened, that some one had grieved
and offended her; and--strange consciousness, softly dawning!--that some
one loved her--deeply, dearly, as in all the days since she was born she
had never been loved before. That even now some one might be thinking of
her--of her alone, as his first object in the world. The sensation was
new, inexplicable, but pleasant nevertheless. It made her feel--what
the desolate orphan girl rarely had felt--a sort of tenderness for, and
honouring of, herself. As she dressed, she once looked wistfully, even
pensively, in the looking-glass.

"It is certainly a queer, brown, Pawnee face! I wonder what he could see
in it to admire. He is very good, very! I wish I could have cared for
him!"

Her heart trembled; all the woman in her was touched. But Agatha was
resolved not to be sentimental, so she fastened her morning-dress rather
more tastefully than usual, and descended to breakfast.

Beside her plate lay a letter, which was pretty closely eyed by
the Ianson family, as their inmate's correspondence had always been
remarkably small.

"A black edge and seal. No bad news, I hope, my dear Miss Bowen?" said
the doctor's wife, sympathetically.

Agatha did not fear. Alas! in the whole wide world she had not