“It was I who sent for you,” said Agatha. And then steadfastly regarding him whom she had tacitly accepted as her husband, the guide and ruler of her whole life--her self-possession failed. A great timidity, almost amounting to terror, came over her. Vaguely she felt the want of something unknown--something which in the whirl of her destiny she could grasp and hold by, sure that she held fast to the right. It was the one emotion, neither regard, liking, honour, or esteem, yet including and surpassing all--the _love_, strong, pure love, without which it is so dangerous, often so fatal, for a woman to marry. Agatha, never having known this feeling, could scarcely be said to have sacrificed it; at least not consciously. But even while she believed she was doing right in accepting the man who loved her, and whom she could make so happy, she trembled. Major Harper sat looking out of the window in an uncomfortable silence, which he evidently knew not how to break. It was a very awkward and somewhat ridiculous position for all three. Nathanael was the first to rise out of it. Slowly his features settled into composure, and his strong, earnest purpose gave him both dignity and calmness, even though all hope had evidently died. He looked steadily at his brother, avoiding Agatha. “Frederick, I think I understand now. She has been telling you all.” “It was right she should. Her father left her in my care. She wishes you to learn her decision in my presence,” said Major Harper, unwittingly taking a new and even respectful tone to the younger brother, whom he was wont to call “that boy.” Nathanael grasped with his slight, long fingers, the chair by which he stood. “As she pleases. I am quite ready. Still--if--yesterday--without telling you or any one--she had said to me--But I am quite ready to hear what she decides.” Despite his firmness, the words were uttered slowly and with a great struggle. “Tell him everything, Miss Bowen; it will come better from yourself,” said Frederick Harper, rising. Agatha rose likewise, walked across the room, and laid her hand in that of him who loved her. The only words she said were so low that he alone could hear them: “I have been very desolate--be kind to me!” Nathanael made no answer; indeed for the moment his look was that of a man bewildered--but he never forgot those words. Agatha felt her hand clasped--softly--but with a firm grasp that seemed to bind it to his for ever. This was the only sign of betrothal that passed between them. In another minute or two, unable to bear the scene longer, she crept out of the room and walked up-stairs, feeling with a dizzy sense, half of comfort, half of fear--yet, on the whole, the comfort stronger than the fear--that the struggle was all over, and her fate sealed for life. When she descended, an hour after, the Harpers had gone; but she found a little note awaiting her, just one line: “If not forbidden, I may come this evening.”