that gradually overspread Mr. Harper's face. More than once she hinted that he should have the armchair, or lie down, or rest in some way; but he took not the least notice; sitting immovably in his place, which happened to be next herself, and vaguely looking across the table towards Mrs. Thornycroft.
At nine o'clock, becoming paler than ever, he bestirred himself, and talked of leaving.
“I ought to be going too. It is not far, and as our roads agree, I will walk with you,” said Agatha, simply.
He seemed surprised—so much so, that she almost blushed, and would have retracted, save for the consciousness of her own frank and kindly purpose. She had watched him closely, and felt convinced that he had been more injured than he confessed; so in her generous straightforward fashion, she wanted to “take care of him,” until he was safe at his brother's door, which she could see from her own. And her solitary education had been conducted on such unworldly principles, that she never thought there was anything remarkable or improper in her proposing to walk home with a young man, whom she knew she could trust in every way, and who was besides Major Harper's brother.
Nor did even the matronly Mrs. Thornycroft object to the plan—save that it took her visitors away so early. “Surely,” she added, “you can't be tired out already.”
Agatha had an ironical answer on the very tip of her tongue: but something in the clear, “good” eye of Nathanael repressed her little wickedness. So she only whispered to Emma that for various reasons she had wished to return early.
“Very well, dear, since you must go, I am sure Mr. Harper will be most happy to escort you.”
“If not, I hope he will just say so,” added Agatha, very plainly.
He smiled; and his full, soft grey eye, fixed on hers, had an earnestness which haunted her for many a day. She began heartily to like Major Harper's brother, though only as his brother, with a sort of reflected regard, springing from that she felt for her guardian and friend.
This consciousness made her manner perfectly easy, cheerful, and kind, even though they were in the perilously sentimental position of two young people strolling home together in the soft twilight of a Midsummer evening: likewise occasionally stopping to look westward at a new moon, which peered at them round street-corners and through the open spaces of darkening squares. But nothing could make these two at all romantic or interesting; their talk on the road was on the most ordinary topics—chiefly bears.
“You seem quite familiar with wild beast life,” Agatha observed. “Were you a very great hunter?”
“Not exactly, for I never could muster up the courage, or the cowardice, wantonly to take away life. I don't remember ever shooting anything, except in self-defence, which was occasionally necessary during the journeys that I used to make from Montreal to the Indian settlements with Uncle Brian.”
“Uncle Brian,” repeated Agatha, wondering whether Major Harper had ever mentioned such a personage, during the two years of their acquaintance. She thought not, since her memory had always kept tenacious record of what he said about his relatives—which was at best but little. It was one of the few things in him which jarred upon Agatha's feelings—Agatha, to whose isolation the idea of a family and a home was so pathetically sweet—his seeming so totally indifferent to his own. All she knew of Major Harper's kith and kin was, that he was the eldest brother of a large family, settled somewhere down in Dorsetshire.
These thoughts swept through her mind, as Agatha, repeated interrogatively “Uncle Brian?”
“The same who fifteen years since took me out with him to America; my father's youngest brother. Has Frederick never told you of him? They two were great companions once.”
“Oh, indeed!” And Agatha, seeing that Nathanael at least showed no dislike, but rather pleasure, in speaking of his family, thought she might harmlessly indulge her curiosity about the Harpers of Dorsetshire. “And you went away with Mr. Brian Harper, at ten years old. How could your mother part with you?”
“She was dead—she died when I was born. But I ought to apologise for thus talking of family matters, which cannot interest you.”
“On the contrary, they do—very much!” cried Agatha; and then blushed at her own earnestness, at which Nathanael brightened up into positive warmth.
“How kind you are! how I wish you knew my sisters! It is so pleasant to me to know them at last, after writing to them and thinking about them for these many years. How you would like our home—I call it home, forgetting that I have been only a visitor, and in a short time must go back to my real home, Montreal.”
“Must you indeed!” And Agatha felt sorry. She had been at once surprised and gratified by the confidential way in which this usually reserved young man talked to her, and her alone. “Why do you live in America? I hate Americans.”
“Do you?” said he, smiling, as if he read her thoughts. “But I have neither Yankee blood nor education. I was English born; brought up in British Canada, and by Uncle Brian.”
He spoke the latter words with a certain proud affection, as if his uncle's mere name were sufficient guarantee for himself. Agatha secretly wondered what could possibly be the reason that Major Harper had never even mentioned this personage, whom Nathanael seemed to hold in such honour.
“Of course,” he continued, “though I dearly like England, though”—and he sunk his voice a little—“though now it will be doubly hard to go away, I could never think of leaving Uncle Brian to spend his old age alone in the country of his adoption.”
“No, no,” returned Agatha, absently, her thoughts still running on this new Mr. Harper. “What profession is he?”
“Nothing now. He has led an unsettled life—always poor. But he took care to settle me in a situation under the Canadian Government. We both think ourselves well to do now.”
Agatha's sense of womanly decorum could hardly keep her from pressing her companion's arm, in instinctive acknowledgment of his goodness. She thought his face looked absolutely beautiful.
However, restraining her quick impulses within the bounds of propriety, she walked on. “And so you will again cross that fearful Atlantic Ocean?” she said at length, with a slight shudder. The young man saw her gesture, and looked surprised—nay, gladdened. But nevertheless he remained silent.
Agatha did the same, for the mention of the sea brought back to her the one only noteworthy incident of her life, which had given her this strange antipathy to the sea and to the thought of traversing it. But this subject—the horrible bugbear of her childhood—she rarely liked to recur to, even now; so it did not mingle in her conversation with Mr. Harper.
At last Nathanael said: “I would it were possible—indeed I have often vainly tried—to persuade Uncle Brian to come back to England. But since he will not, it is clearly right for me to return to Canada. Anne Valery says so.”
“Anne Valery!” again repeated Agatha, catching at this second strange name with which she was supposed to be familiar.
“What, did you never hear of her—my father's ward, my sister's chief friend—quite one of the family? Is it possible that my brother never spoke to you of Anne Valery?”
No, certainly not. Agatha was quite sure of that. The circumstance of Major Harper's having a friend who bore the very suspicious
