“I’m sorry to disturb you, my dear. But here is little Mrs. Ferrari wanting to know when she may say a few words to you.” Agnes turned to Henry, before she replied. “You remember Emily Bidwell, my favourite pupil years ago at the village school, and afterwards my maid? She left me, to marry an Italian courier, named Ferrari—and I am afraid it has not turned out very well. Do you mind my having her in here for a minute or two?” Henry rose to take his leave. “I should be glad to see Emily again at any other time,” he said. “But it is best that I should go now. My mind is disturbed, Agnes; I might say things to you, if I stayed here any longer, which—which are better not said now. I shall cross the Channel by the mail to-night, and see how a few weeks’ change will help me.” He took her hand. “Is there anything in the world that I can do for you?” he asked very earnestly. She thanked him, and tried to release her hand. He held it with a tremulous lingering grasp. “God bless you, Agnes!” he said in faltering tones, with his eyes on the ground. Her face flushed again, and the next instant turned paler than ever; she knew his heart as well as he knew it himself—she was too distressed to speak. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it fervently, and, without looking at her again, left the room. The nurse hobbled after him to the head of the stairs: she had not forgotten the time when the younger brother had been the unsuccessful rival of the elder for the hand of Agnes. “Don’t be down-hearted, Master Henry,” whispered the old woman, with the unscrupulous common sense of persons in the lower rank of life. “Try her again, when you come back!” Left alone for a few moments, Agnes took a turn in the room, trying to compose herself. She paused before a little water-colour drawing on the wall, which had belonged to her mother: it was her own portrait when she was a child. “How much happier we should be,” she thought to herself sadly, “if we never grew up!” The courier’s wife was shown in—a little meek melancholy woman, with white eyelashes, and watery eyes, who curtseyed deferentially and was troubled with a small chronic cough. Agnes shook hands with her kindly. “Well, Emily, what can I do for you?” The courier’s wife made rather a strange answer: “I’m afraid to tell you, Miss.” “Is it such a very difficult favour to grant? Sit down, and let me hear how you are going on. Perhaps the petition will slip out while we are talking. How does your husband behave to you?”