Agatha blushed deeply, but made no reply. She took her brother-in-law's offered arm, offered with a mechanical courtesy that survived the great discomposure of mind under which he evidently laboured, and turned with him towards home. She was at once puzzled and grieved to see the state he was in, which, deny it and disguise it as he would--and he tried hard to do so--was quite clear to her womanly perception. His laugh was hollow, his step hurried, his eyes wandering from side to side as if he were afraid of being seen. How different from his old cheerful lounge, full of a good-natured conceit, apparently content with himself, and willing that the whole street should gaze their fill at Major Frederick Harper. So old he looked, too; as if the moment his merry mask of smiles was thrown off, the cruel lurking wrinkles appeared. Agatha pitied him, and felt a return of the old liking, warm and kind, such as it was before the innuendoes of foolish friends had first lured her to distrust the nature of her own innocent feelings, and then changed them into positive contempt and aversion. She said, with an air of gentle matronly freedom, half sisterly, too, and wholly different from the shy manner of Agatha Bowen to Major Harper: “You must come home with me. I fear you are ill, or in anxiety. Why did you not tell your brother?” And suddenly she thought of Emma's statement of the morning. But Agatha, in her unworldliness, never supposed such a trivial loss as that of money could make any man so miserable as Major Harper seemed. “I ill? I anxious? I tell my brother?” he repeated, sharply. “Nay, as you will. Only do come to us. He will be so glad to see you.” “Glad to see me?” He again repeated her words, as though he had none of his own, or were too bewildered to use them. Nevertheless, through a certain playful influence which Agatha could exert when she liked, making almost everybody yield to her, Major Harper suffered himself to be led along; his companion talking pleasantly to him the while, lest he might think she noticed his discomposure. Arrived at home, they found that Nathanael had walked to the Regent's Park to fetch his wife, according to agreement. Mrs. Harper looked sorry. She had already learned one little secret of her husband's character--his dislike to any unpunctuality, any altered plans or broken promises. “Still, you must come in and wait for him.” “Wait for whom?” said Major Harper, absently. “Your brother.” “My brother!--I, wait to see my brother! Impossible--I--I'll write. Good morning--good morning.” He was leaving the hall--more hurried and agitated than ever--when Mrs. Harper, now really concerned, laid her hand upon his arm. “I will not let you go. Come in, and tell me what ails you.” The soft whisper, the eyes of genuine compassion--womanly compassion only, without any love--were more than Major Harper could resist.