Mr. Bernard involuntarily raised his eyes, and glanced at the spot indicated. At a side-table, a little apart from the others, Agnes was seated, looking over a large and elegant portfolio, the peculiar beauties of whose admirable engravings, Ernest Clifford seemed eagerly pointing out, as he bent over her chair; his handsome countenance lit up with a smile of pleasurable emotion. "Ah, yes, I understand you now, Maria. But I heard Mr. Bernard had some partiality that way." "Hush, speak lower, for he is standing at the table near you." "Oh, dear me, I had no idea he was so handy." "That was mere idle gossip, I assure you," was the reply, as the tones sank into a whisper. "I have the best evidence in the world as to that." "Well, well, they will make a handsome couple, I must say," remarked Maria's companion, as Mr. Bernard moved away with a firm step, which gave no indication of the mental agony that was rending his soul. Glad to make his escape, he stepped out from an open window in the balcony, and from thence descended, by a short flight of marble steps, into the large and thickly-shaded garden, which it overlooked. With a feverish step he traversed its winding walks, until wearied he sank on a rustic seat, beneath the welcome shade of a graceful elm. The sounds of music and mirth came wafted to him through the open casement, and never seemed they less congenial to his feelings. "If I could only think it some of that ill-natured woman's gossip, I would not care," he said, half aloud, "for the mind that could indite such an epistle as Ella received, containing the account of Agnes's supposed death, would be capable of anything,--but, alas, I fear it is too true. 'Her heart it is another's, and It never can be mine.' Yes, she appears reserved, almost cold with me. I am evidently shunned by her, while =he= is welcomed most warmly, whenever he appears. But I cannot blame her. It was natural that an acquaintance, thus strangely formed, should lead to such a result, and he, too, yes, he is worthy of her. He loves her dearly, I am sure of that; but never, never can he regard her as I do." Again the sounds of music swelled on the balmy evening breeze. It was now a woman's voice that warbled clear and sweet a touching strain. "It is Agnes," he murmured, adding as a fine manly voice took up another part, "and that is Ernest Clifford. My fondest hopes, a long, a last, farewell." CHAPTER XIV. A fortnight had elapsed subsequent to the festivity recorded in the preceding chapter, when, late one afternoon, Arthur,--who had been engaged from early morning in a distant part of the city, transacting some business of importance,--as he returned, passing by Mr. Denham's dwelling, suddenly came in contact with Mr. Clifford, who, with a quick, eager step, and a countenance all aglow with some pleasurable emotion, was hurrying on, so absorbed in his own thoughts, that he was only arrested by the sound of his friend's voice.