Agnes Marshall, though very quiet, was observant, and she perceived in a moment that something was wrong with the magnificent youth who had scarcely deigned to look at her when they had met on previous occasions. She saw also that his manner had greatly changed, and very much for the better. He spoke to her now on terms of equality, and actually addressed her father in a tone of respect. Something must have happened. Aubrey, naturally the less observant of the two, was looking on just now with quickened senses; and discovered, also to his surprise, that the simple supper was served with as much dainty neatness as at Lord Oxford's table; that Mr Marshall could talk intelligently and interestingly on other than religious subjects; that Agnes really was not dull, but quite able to respond to her father's remarks; that her eyes were clear and bright, her complexion not at all bad, and her smile decidedly pleasant: and lastly, that both his hosts, though take a thus unawares, were exceedingly kind to him, and ready to put themselves to any trouble or inconvenience in order to accommodate him. He had learned more, when he lay down to sleep that night, in twelve hours than in any previous twelve months of his life, since his infancy. The lessons were of higher value, and they were not likely to be lost. When supper was over, Mr Marshall repaired to the White Bear, and Aubrey was left to Agnes as entertainer. She was sewing a long seam, and her needle went in and out with unfailing regularity. For a few minutes he watched her in silence, discovering a sunny gleam on her hair that he had never before noticed. Then he suddenly spoke out one of his thoughts. "Don't you find that exceeding wearisome?" Agnes looked up with amused surprise. "Truly," she said, "I never thought about it." "I am sure I could not work at it ten minutes," replied Aubrey. Agnes laughed--a low, soft, musical laugh, which struck pleasantly on the ear. "My father would be ill off for shirts if I could not," she answered. "You see, Mr Louvaine, things have to be done. 'Tis to no good purpose to be impatient with them. It doth but weary more the worker, and furthers not the work a whit." "Would you not like to lead a different life?--such a life as other young maids do--amid flowers, and sunshine, and jewels, and dancing, and laughter, and all manner of jollity?" He was curious to hear what she would say to the question. Agnes answered by a rather wondering smile. Then her eyes went out of the window, to the steeple of Saint Andrew's, and the blue sky beyond it. "I might well enjoy some of them," she said slowly, as if the different ideas were passing in review before her. "I love sunshine, and flowers. But there is one thing I love far better." "And that is--?" A light "that never was from sun nor moon" flooded the grave grey eyes of Agnes Marshall. Her voice was very low and subdued as she answered.