Mrs. Harper, as she went through the rooms of this, the first house she had ever looked on with an eye of interest, admiring some things, objecting to others, and beginning to arrange and decide in her own mind,--felt the awakening of that feeling which philosophers call “the domestic instinct”--the instinct which makes of women good wives, fond mothers, and wise mistresses of pleasant households. She wondered that, as Agatha Bowen, she had thought so little of these things. “Yes,” said she, brightening up as she listened to Emma's long-winded discourse upon furniture and arrangements, and learning for the first time to appreciate the capital good sense of that admirable domestic oracle and young housekeeper's guide--“Yes, I think this will just do. And, as you say, we easily manage to buy it, furniture and all, so as to make what improvements we choose. Oh, how delicious it will be to have a house of one's own!” And the tears almost came into her eyes at thought of that long vista of future joy--the years which might pass in this same dwelling. “My husband,” she said to the person who showed them over the place--and her cheeks glowed, and her heart dilated with a tender pride as she used the word--“my husband will come to-morrow and make his decision. I think there is very little doubt but that we shall take the house.” So anxious was she to conclude the matter and let Mr. Harper share in all her pleasant feelings, that she excused herself from staying at Emma's until he came to fetch her, and determined to walk back to meet him. “What, with nobody to take care of you?” said Emma. “The idea of anybody's taking care of me! We never thought of such a thing three months ago. I used to come and go everywhere at my own sweet will, you know.” Nevertheless, it was a sweet thought that there _was_ somebody to take care of her. Her high spirit was beginning to learn that there are dearer pleasures in life than even the pleasure of independence. Pondering on these things--and also on the visit to Kingcombe Holm which her husband had that morning decided--she walked through the well-known squares, her eyes and her veil lowered, her light springy step restrained into matronly dignity. Agatha had a wondrous amount of dignity for such a little woman. Her gait, too, had in it something very peculiar--a mixture of elasticity, decision, and pride. Her small figure seemed to rise up airily between each footpress, as if unaccustomed to creep. There was a trace of wildness in her motions; hers was anything but a dainty tread or a lazy drawing-room glide; it was a bold, free, Indian-like walk--a footstep of the wilderness.