Agnes Lechester was at least thirty—she might have been a year or two older—and there hovered over her countenance an indefinable air of melancholy, as if the memory of a past sorrow was for ever before her mind. There was not a wrinkle, not a groove upon her pale brow, but the impress of pain was none the less unmistakable upon her features. Her hair was very dark, as near as possible to the raven’s hue, so often spoken of, so rarely seen. Her eyes were large and grey, deep-set under delicate eyebrows, well-marked, and slightly arching. Her forehead high and intellectual. The features, the nose and mouth, were small and well-made, the ears especially delicate. High blood and long descent spoke out clearly in her every aspect, down even to the quiet subdued manner—the exquisite tact, and consideration for others, which distinguished her in conversation and in daily life. She was about the same height as Violet, but appeared taller, being more slightly made. She wore a simple black-silk, extremely plain, and one mourning-ring—no other jewellery. Violet, whose position was not a little embarrassing, found herself in a few moments entirely at her ease, and conversing as with an old friend. Agnes did not in a direct manner recall the terrible past, but she had a way of asking what may be called sympathising questions, which quickly drew forth Violet’s confidence. For the first time she found a sister to whom she could express her feelings unrestrainedly; and even that brief hour of companionship did her much good. Not till all trace of distant formality had been removed, not till there had been a certain degree of familiarity established between them, did Agnes allude to the real object of her visit. She had come to ask Violet as a favour—so she put it—to spend a little time with her. The Towers were so very, very lonely—she said this in a tone that was evidently sincere—she had so few visitors, practically none, and she should be so glad if Violet would come. Violet saw in an instant that it was really out of kindness to her that the invitation was given; she wished to accept it, and yet hesitated. Agnes pressed her. Then she remembered Aymer—what would he say? If she went, he would be alone—he would not see her, and she would not see him. Thinking of him, a slight blush rose to her cheek. Perhaps Agnes guessed what was passing in her mind, for she said— “Mr Malet will, of course, come and see us—often. You must ask his permission, you know. I will come again to-morrow and fetch you in the brougham.” So it was practically settled, and Agnes, after a warm farewell, departed. Violet waited for Aymer, almost fearing he would upbraid her; but then the separation would only be for a little time. A little time! When Agnes Lechester came to ask her to The Towers, she came with a full knowledge of Violet’s position—of her monetary loss, and of the noble self-sacrifice she had made.