She was, I fear, a damsel who rather neglected the _bienséances_ of life. Only, in her excuse, it must be allowed that her friends were doing what they had no earthly business to do; since; if there is one subject above all upon which a young woman has a right to keep her thoughts, feelings, and intentions to herself, and to exact from others the respect of silence, it is that of marriage. Possibly, Agatha Bowen was of this opinion. “Mrs. Hill, you are a very kind, good soul: and Emma Thornycroft, I like you very much; but if--(Oh! be quiet, Tittens!)--if you could manage to let me and 'my Husband' alone.” These were the only serious words she said--and they were but half serious; she evidently felt such an irresistible propensity to laugh. “Now,” continued she, turning the conversation, and putting on a dignified aspect, which occasionally she took it into her head to assume, though more in playfulness than earnest--“now let me tell you who you will meet here at dinner to-day.” “Major Harper, of course.” “I do not see the 'of course' Mrs. Thornycroft,” returned Agatha, rather sharply; then, melting into a smile, she added: “Well, 'of course,' as you say; what more likely visitor could I have than my guardian?” “Trustee, my dear; guardians belong to romances, where young ladies are always expected to hate, or fall in love with them.” Agatha flushed slightly. Now, unlike most girls, Miss Bowen did not look pretty when she blushed; her skin being very dark, and not over clear, the red blood coursing under it dyed her cheek, not “celestial, rosy red,” but a warm mahogany colour. Perhaps a consciousness of this deepened the unpleasant blushing fit, to which, like most sensitive people at her age, she was always rather prone. “Not,” continued Mrs. Thornycroft, watching her,--“not that I think any love affair is likely to happen in your case; Major Harper is far too much of a settled-down bachelor, and at the same time too old.” Agatha pulled a comical face, and made a few solemn allusions to Methuselah. She had a peculiarly quick, even abrupt manner of speaking, saying a dozen words in the time most young ladies would take to drawl out three; and possessing, likewise, the rare feminine quality of never saying a word more than was necessary. “Agatha, how funny you are!” laughed her easily-amused friend. “But, dear, tell me who else is coming?” And she glanced doubtfully down on a gown that looked like a marriage-silk “dyed and renovated.” “Oh, no ladies--and gentlemen never see whether one is dressed in brocade or sackcloth,” returned Agatha, rather maliciously;--“only, 'old Major Harper' as you are pleased to call him, and----” “Nay, I didn't call him very old--just forty, or thereabouts--though he does not look anything like it. Then he is so handsome, and, I must say, Agatha, pays you such extreme attention.” Agatha laughed again--the quick, light-hearted laugh of nineteen--and her brown eyes brightened with innocent pleasure.