itation; and sympathising of course with the man, put in a timely
word for Henry. 'He says, he's going away, my dear; and he only wants
to shake hands, and say good-bye.' This plain statement of the case had
its effect. Agnes decided on receiving her cousin.

He entered the room so rapidly that he surprised her in the act of
throwing the fragments of Montbarry's last letter into the fire. She
hurriedly spoke first.

'You are leaving London very suddenly, Henry. Is it business? or
pleasure?'

Instead of answering her, he pointed to the flaming letter, and to some
black ashes of burnt paper lying lightly in the lower part of the
fireplace.

'Are you burning letters?'

'Yes.'

'His letters?'

'Yes.'

He took her hand gently. 'I had no idea I was intruding on you, at a
time when you must wish to be alone. Forgive me, Agnes--I shall see
you when I return.'

She signed to him, with a faint smile, to take a chair.

'We have known one another since we were children,' she said. 'Why
should I feel a foolish pride about myself in your presence? why should
I have any secrets from you? I sent back all your brother's gifts to
me some time ago. I have been advised to do more, to keep nothing that
can remind me of him--in short, to burn his letters. I have taken the
advice; but I own I shrank a little from destroying the last of the
letters. No--not because it was the last, but because it had this in
it.' She opened her hand, and showed him a lock of Montbarry's hair,
tied with a morsel of golden cord. 'Well! well! let it go with the
rest.'

She dropped it into the flame. For a while, she stood with her back to
Henry, leaning on the mantel-piece, and looking into the fire. He took
the chair to which she had pointed, with a strange contradiction of
expression in his face: the tears were in his eyes, while the brows
above were knit close in an angry frown. He muttered to himself, 'Damn
him!'

She rallied her courage, and looked at him again when she spoke.
'Well, Henry, and why are you going away?'

'I am out of spirits, Agnes, and I want a change.'

She paused before she spoke again. His face told her plainly that he
was thinking of her when he made that reply. She was grateful to him,
but her mind was not with him: her mind was still with the man who had
deserted her. She turned round again to the fire.

'Is it true,' she asked, after a long silence, 'that they have been
married to-day?'

He answered ungraciousl