‘It was the Sister Superior I wanted,’ said Oswald, and after a pause he turned away. He would not say anything about Miss Burchell. After he had left the House, it occurred to him that even this humble porteress would have been better than nothing, but then it was too late. He walked about the streets for a whole hour, questioning with himself what he ought to do. His mother? She was very kind, but she was not without her prejudices; and would not she recollect afterwards that her first sight of her daughter-in-law had been at the railway inn at the junction, in a semi-conventual dress, and a most equivocal position. If he could but have laid hands on Cara? But on what excuse could he run away with a second young lady? No--there was nothing for it now; he must go back to Agnes, and tell her of his non-success, which was not his fault, and next day he must carry out his own plan. There was nothing else for it. He went to the chambers of a friend, not venturing to go home, and borrowed some clothes; then went back again in the afternoon. There were few trains, and not many people were travelling so far. He was the only individual who got out at the junction, where already he was a person of importance. ‘The young lady said as there was another lady coming,’ the porter said to him, who had told him last night about the train; and the man looked suspiciously about the carriage, in the netting and under the seat. ‘Do you think I’ve made away with her?’ said Oswald; but he trembled as he walked down the road to the inn between the two high hedgerows. Agnes was walking about, waiting, with wistful eyes. He saw at a glance that she had modified her dress by some strange art not to be divined by man. Her cloak was laid aside; her long black dress looked severely graceful in comparison with the snippings and trimmings of fashion, but not otherwise extraordinary. And she had a simple hat, borrowed from the landlady’s daughter, over the warm golden brown Perugino hair. She stood still, clasping her hands, when she saw he was alone. ‘It is no fault of mine,’ he said, going up to her in hurried apology and desperation. Agnes grew so pale that he lost all his courage. ‘She would not come then?’ the poor girl cried, with a half-sobbing sigh. ‘No, no; not that; she was not there. It is our bad luck. She has gone to the mother-house, whatever that may be. What could I do? I have done nothing but think since I left you. O Agnes, forgive me, my darling, for having brought you into this! My own plan is the only one; but I never thought of this--Sunday--to-morrow, to-morrow every thing can be arranged.’