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 a relative to lose! And, glancing at the rather peculiar hand, she recognised it at once. She remembered likewise, to account for the black seal, that one of the Miss Harpers had died within the year. So, whether from the spice of malice in her composition she wished to disappoint the polite inquisitiveness of the Iansons, or whether from more generous reasons of her own, Miss Bowen left her letter unopened until the meal was done; when, carelessly taking it up, she adjourned to her own sitting-room. There was not the slightest necessity for any such precaution, as the missive contained merely these lines:--