Saturday came, full of fate. They knew all the names of all those dread and magnificent guides of public opinion, the literary newspapers; and with an awed and trembling heart, the young author waited for their verdict. She was so young, however, and in reality so ignorant of what might be the real issue of this first step into the world, that Agnes had a certain pleasure in her trepidation, and, scarcely knowing what she expected, knew only that it was in the highest degree novel, amusing, and extraordinary that these sublime and lofty people should ever be tempted to notice her at all. It was still only a matter of excitement and curiosity and amusing oddness to them all. If the young adventurer had been a man, this would have been a solemn crisis, full of fate: it was even so to a woman, seeking her own independence; but Agnes Atheling was only a girl in the heart of her family, and, looking out with laughing eyes upon her fortune, smiled at fate. It is Saturday--yes, Saturday afternoon, slowly darkening towards the twilight. Agnes and Marian at the window are eagerly looking out, Mamma glances over their bright heads with unmistakable impatience, Papa is palpably restless in his easy-chair. Here he comes on flying feet, that big messenger of fortune--crossing the whole breadth of Bellevue in two strides, with ever so many papers in his hands. “Oh, I wonder what they will say!” cries Marian, clasping her pretty fingers. Agnes, too breathless to speak, makes neither guess nor answer--and here he comes! It is half dark, and scarcely possible to read these momentous papers. The young author presses close to the window with the uncut _Athenæum_. There is Papa, half-risen from his chair; there is Mamma anxiously contemplating her daughter’s face; there is Marian, reading over her shoulder; and Charlie stands with his hat on in the shade, holding fast in his hand the other papers. “One at a time!” says Charlie. He knows what they are, the grim young ogre, but he will not say a word.