“I am very anxious about you, Agnes,” he said. “But for the fortunate chance which led me to call here to-day—who knows what that vile woman might not have said or done, if she had found you alone? My dear, you are leading a sadly unprotected solitary life. I don’t like to think of it; I want to see it changed—especially after what has happened to-day. No! no! it is useless to tell me that you have your old nurse. She is too old; she is not in your rank of life—there is no sufficient protection in the companionship of such a person for a lady in your position. Don’t mistake me, Agnes! what I say, I say in the sincerity of my devotion to you.” He paused, and took her hand. She made a feeble effort to withdraw it—and yielded. “Will the day never come,” he pleaded, “when the privilege of protecting you may be mine? when you will be the pride and joy of my life, as long as my life lasts?” He pressed her hand gently. She made no reply. The colour came and went on her face; her eyes were turned away from him. “Have I been so unhappy as to offend you?” he asked. She answered that—she said, almost in a whisper, “No.” “Have I distressed you?” “You have made me think of the sad days that are gone.” She said no more; she only tried to withdraw her hand from his for the second time. He still held it; he lifted it to his lips. “Can I never make you think of other days than those—of the happier days to come? Or, if you must think of the time that is passed, can you not look back to the time when I first loved you?” She sighed as he put the question. “Spare me, Henry,” she answered sadly. “Say no more!” The colour again rose in her cheeks; her hand trembled in his. She looked lovely, with her eyes cast down and her bosom heaving gently. At that moment he would have given everything he had in the world to take her in his arms and kiss her. Some mysterious sympathy, passing from his hand to hers, seemed to tell her what was in his mind. She snatched her hand away, and suddenly looked up at him. The tears were in her eyes. She said nothing; she let her eyes speak for her. They warned him—without anger, without unkindness—but still they warned him to press her no further that day. “Only tell me that I am forgiven,” he said, as he rose from the sofa. “Yes,” she answered quietly, “you are forgiven.” “I have not lowered myself in your estimation, Agnes?” “Oh, no!” “Do you wish me to leave you?” She rose, in her turn, from the sofa, and walked to her writing-table before she replied. The unfinished letter which she had been writing when Lady Montbarry interrupted her, lay open on the blotting-book. As she looked at the letter, and then looked at Henry, the smile that charmed everybody showed itself in her face.