“Yes, and I think so still,” she replied, without any false shame. “I never look at you, but I feel there is 'no guile' in you, Mr. Harper.” “Thanks,” he said, with much feeling. “Thanks--except for the last word. How soon will you try to say 'Nathanael?'” A fit of wilfulness or shyness was upon Agatha. She drew away her hand which he had taken. “How soon? Nay, I cannot tell. It is a long name, old-fashioned, and rather ugly.” He made no answer--scarcely even showed that he was hurt; but he never again asked her to call him “Nathanael.” She went on with her work, and he sat quietly looking at her for some little time more. Any Asmodeus peering at them through the roof would have vowed these were the oddest pair of lovers ever seen. At last, rousing himself, Mr. Harper said: “It is time, Agatha”--he paused, and added--“dear Agatha--quite time that we should talk a little about what concerns our happiness--at least mine.” She looked at him--saw how earnest he was, and put down her work. The softness of her manner soothed him. “I know, dear Agatha, that it is very wrong in me; but sometimes I can hardly believe this is all true, and that you really promised--what I heard from your own lips two days ago. Will you--out of that good heart of yours--say it again?” “What must I say?” “That you love--no, I don't mean that--but that you care for me a little--enough to trust me with your happiness? Do you?” For all reply, Agatha held out the hand she had drawn back. Her lover kept it tight in that peculiar grasp of his--very soft and still, but firm as adamant. “Thank you. You shall never regret your trust. My brother told me all you said to him on Saturday morning. I know you do not quite love me yet.” Agatha started, it was so true. “Still, as you have loved no one else--you are sure of that?” She thought a minute, then lifted her candid eyes, and answered: “Yes, quite sure!” He, watching her closely, betrayed himself so far as to give an inward thankful sigh. “Then, Agatha, since I love you, I am not afraid.” “Nor I,” she answered, and a tear fell, for she was greatly moved. Her betrothed put his arm round her, softly and timidly, as if unfamiliar with actions of tenderness; but she trembled so much that, still softly, he let her go, only keeping firm hold of her hand, apparently to show that no power on earth, gentle or strong, should wrest that from him. A few minutes after, he began speaking of his affairs, of which Agatha was in a state of entire ignorance. She said, jestingly--for they had fallen into quite familiar jesting now, and were laughing together like a couple of children--that she had not the least idea whether she were about to marry a prince or a beggar. “No,” answered her lover, smiling at her unworldliness, and thereby betraying that, innocent as he looked, his was not the innocence of ignorance. “No; but I am not exactly a prince, and as a beggar I should certainly be too proud to marry _you_.” “Indeed! Why?”