Quietly opening the window, she leant out gazing at the moonlight, as foolish girls will--yet who does not remember, half pathetically, those dear old follies! “Heigho! I wonder what will be the end of it all!” said Agatha Bowen; without specifying what the pronoun “it” alluded to. But she stopped, hearing a footstep rather policeman-like passing up and down the railing under the trees. And as after a while he crossed the street--she saw that the “policeman” had the very unprofessional appearance of a cloak and long fair hair:--Agatha's cheek burned; she shut down the window and blind, and relighted the candle. But her heart beat fast--it was so strange, so new, to be the object of such love. “However, I suppose I shall get used to it--besides--oh, how good he is!” And the genuine reverence of her heart conquered its touch of feminine vanity; which, perhaps, had he known, Nathanael would have done wiser in going to bed like a Christian, than in wandering like a heathen idolater round his beloved's shrine. But, however her pride may have been flattered, it is certain that Agatha went to sleep with tears, innocent and tender enough to serve as mirrors for watching night-angels, lying on her cheek. The next morning she waited at home, and for the first time received her betrothed openly as such. She was sitting alone in her little drawing-room engaged at her work; but put it down when Mr. Harper entered, and held out her hand kindly, though with a slight restraint and confusion. Both were needless: he only touched this lately-won hand with his soft boyish lips--like a _preux chevalier_ of the olden time--and sat down by her side. However deep his love might be, its reserve was unquestionable. After a while he began to talk to her--timidly yet tenderly, as friend with friend--watching her fingers while they moved, until at length the girl grew calmed by the calmness of her young lover. So much so, that she even forgot he was a young man and her lover, and found herself often steadfastly looking up into his face, which was gradually melting into a known likeness, as many faces do when we grow familiar with them. Agatha puzzled herself much as to who it could be that Mr. Harper was like--though she found no nearer resemblance than a head she had once seen of the angel Gabriel. She told him this--quite innocently, and then, recollecting herself, coloured deeply. But Nathanael looked perfectly happy. “The likeness is very flattering,” said he, smiling. “Yet I would only wish to be--what you called me once, the first evening I saw you. Do you remember?” “No.” “Ah--well--it was not probable you should,” he answered, as if patiently taking upon himself the knowledge which only a strong love can bear--that it is _alone_ in its strength. “It was merely when they were talking of my name, and you said I looked like a Nathanael. Now, do you remember?”