“Agnes!--I wonder if there is anything I could learn?” said Marian, rather timidly; “everybody here can do something; it is very different from doing a little of everything, like Miss Tavistock at Bellevue--and we used to think her accomplished!--but do you think there is anything I could learn?” “And me!” said Agnes, somewhat disconsolately. “You? no, indeed, you do not need it,” said Marian, with a little pride. “You can do what none of them can do;--but they can talk about everything these people, and every one of them can do something. There is that Sir Langham--you would think he was only a young gentleman--but Mrs Edgerley says he makes beautiful sketches. We did not understand people like these when we were at home.” “What do you think of Sir Langham, May?” asked Agnes seriously. “Think of him? oh, he is very pleasant,” said Marian, with a smile and a slight blush: “but never mind Sir Langham; do you think there is anything I could learn?” “I do not know,” said Agnes; “perhaps you could sing. I think you might sing, if you would only take courage and try.” “Sing! oh no, no!”; said Marian; “no one could venture to sing after the young lady--did you hear her name, Agnes?--who sang last night. She did not speak to any one, she was more by herself than we were. I wonder who she could be.” “Mrs Edgerley called her Rachel,” said Agnes. “I did not hear any other name. I think it must be the same that Mrs Edgerley told mamma about; you remember she said----” “I am here,” said a low voice suddenly, close beside them. The girls started back, exceedingly confused and ashamed. They had not perceived a sort of little bower, woven among the willows, from which now hastily appeared the third person who spoke. She was a little older than Agnes, very slight and girlish in her person--very dark of complexion, with a magnificent mass of black hair, and large liquid dark eyes. Nothing else about her was remarkable; her features were small and delicate, her cheeks colourless, her very lips pale; but her eyes, which were not of a slumbrous lustre, but full of light, rapid, earnest, and irregular, lighted up her dark pallid face with singular power and attractiveness. She turned upon them quickly as they stood distressed and irresolute before her. “I did not mean to interrupt you,” said this new-comer; “but you were about to speak of me, and I thought it only honest to give you notice that I was here.” “Thank you,” said Agnes with humility. “We are strangers, and did not know--we scarcely know any one here; and we thought you were nearly about our own age, and perhaps would help us--” Here Agnes stopped short; she was not skilled in making overtures of friendship. “No, indeed no,” cried their new acquaintance, hurriedly. “I never make friends. I could be of no use. I am only a dependent, scarcely so good as that. I am nothing here.”