“If I have it has been in ignorance, Agnes. I have never intended-- Look,” she said, suddenly turning to the table at the bedside, “do these old things belong to me?” Poor Agnes took this change of subject for a sign of still further derangement of her sister’s troubled thoughts. She gave a slight glance at the little common-place boxes. “Oh, my dear, don’t think of such trifling things,” she said. “Agnes, look. Do they belong to me?” “These boxes? yes. I think so--they used to hold your work. They used to----” Then Agnes paused, for she suddenly remembered where the larger of the two, an Indian box in sandal wood, inlaid with ivory and silver, had always stood, and the last use that had been made of it. “They are not of any consequence. They can’t have anything to do with what we are speaking of,” she said. “You are sure they are mine?” said Mary, interrogating her face with anxious eyes. “Oh, Mary, dear! yes, I am sure enough. They were put into a cupboard, I remember. There is a train about eleven, but perhaps to-morrow you may think differently. It will be a great disappointment for the boys.” Mary looked at her fixedly as if trying to understand. Then she said, “Tell Martin, Agnes, to pack them up. I want to look into them, perhaps there is something in them that will show-- But not here, not here!” “It shall be just as you please,” said Agnes, kissing Lady Frogmore’s pale face. Martin whispered that she would not go to bed, that she did not like her lady’s looks, that she would call Agnes at once in case of any need, thus securing for poor Agnes a wakeful and miserable night, as it is the habit of careful attendants to do. But it turned out that there was no occasion for this zeal. Mary slept, or at least was very quiet all the night. But she had not changed her mind in the morning. “Don’t ask me to stay,” she cried “I can’t, I can’t stay.” It was the morning of the ball, and the household at the Park was so much absorbed by that great event that so small a matter as the departure of a guest did not tell much. Agnes found Duke out of doors, closely attended, like his shadow, by Mar, just setting out upon some long expedition to cheat the hours until it should be time for lunch. “The day before a ball is always such a long day,” he said with simplicity. “We are going off to pass the time.” “And I am going off,” said Agnes, “though not to pass the time. I am glad I have found you two to say good-bye.” “You are going away!” they both cried in consternation. “I knew,” cried Agnes, with a certain relief in expressing her feeling, “I knew it would be too much for her bringing her here. Oh, yes, it’s true I was anxious to come. I wanted her to come, but I always felt it was a risk. Dear boys, I’m going to take you into my confidence. You’re such friends! Thank God, you’re such friends! Well, then, I can tell you, I think she is beginning to awake.”