“What--what?” said Agatha, waking, with a confused notion that something very dreadful had happened, or was going to happen. She recollected that this day on which she so early opened her eyes was some day of great solemnity. It seemed so like that of her father's funeral. “Don't be frightened, love. Nothing has occurred; only there is Mr. Harper in the parlour below, wanting to speak with you. I never heard of such a request from a bridegroom. It is contrary to all rules of common sense and decorum.” “Hush!” said Agatha, trying to collect her thoughts. “Tell me exactly his message.” “That he wished to speak with you at once, before you dress for church; and will wait for you in the dining-room. What--you are not going to do as he desires?--I wouldn't! One should never _obey_ till after marriage.” Agatha made no answer, but composedly began to dress. In a few minutes she had once more put on the mourning, laid aside as she thought for ever the night before, and had gone down-stairs to her bridegroom. He was standing in the only available corner of the room not occupied by a chaotic mass of hymeneal preparations, and gazing vacantly out into the square, where the trees cast the long shadows of early morning, while the merry little sparrows kept up a perpetual din. As the door moved, Mr. Harper turned round. He had a sickly, worn look, as if he had scarcely slept all night, and in his manner was a strange mingling of trouble and of joy. “Agatha--how kind! I ought to apologise,” he began, taking both her hands. “But no! I cannot.” “Nothing is wrong? No misfortune happened?” “Misfortune? God forbid! Surely I do not look as if it were a misfortune? I am only too glad--too happy. Whatever results from it, I am indeed happy!” “Then so am I, whatsoever it may be,” returned Agatha, softly. “Still, do tell me.” Her bridegroom, as he pressed her to his bosom, looked as if he had for the moment forgotten all about his tidings; but afterwards, when her second entreaty came, he took out a letter and bade her read, holding her fast the while with a light firm hand on her shoulder. He seemed almost to fear that at the news he brought she would glide out of his grasp like snow. “It is an odd hand--strange to me,” said Agatha. “Is it”--and a sudden thought struck her--“is it----” “Yes--thank God.” “Oh, then, he is safe--I am so glad--so glad!” cried Agatha, in the true sympathy of her heart. But her very gladness appeared to affect contrariwise the troubled mood of her lover. His hand dropped imperceptibly from her shoulder--he sat down. “Read the letter, which came late last night. I thought you would be pleased--that was why I thus disturbed you.” Agatha, who had not yet learned the joy or pain of reading momently the changes of a beloved face, immediately perused the letter. It was rather eccentric of its kind: “Lodge of O-me-not-tua. “My dear Boy,