with their marble consoles ; the statuettes,
and pictures, and flowers, and porcelain ; the
birds in their cages ; the jewels and trinkets ;
the rare and costly trifles tossed lavishly about
— all this had pleased simple Agnes to see.
Now, she marked the incongruity of her own
homely bonnet and cloak as they lay on the
embroidered couch.  Also, for the first time,
she noted the contrast between herself and
her hostess as they were both reflected in
one of the long glasses.

Rosamond took her hand.

" Let us be friends," she said, with a certain
hesitating timidity, very unusual to Miss
Bellew.

A little while before Agnes would have
responded warmly, lovingly.  Now, instinctively
she shrunk back.  But her next
impulse forbade her to risk the chance of
giving pain.

"I hope so," she answered with gentleness.
Rosamond kissed her, and she returned the
kiss.

Down the soft-carpeted staircase into the
chastened glow of the drawing-room again,
with its purple and its gold, and its grandeur
that was lost in the refinement and grace
that reigned over all.  Good night to
the courtly, white-haired gentleman who
stood by the hearth; good night to the
queen of the palace— the fairy of the enchanted
castle— the lily of the beautiful
garden.  Rosamond looked like all these as
gave her hand, first to Agnes, then to
Leonard.  He touched it; glanced, not looked,
into her face, and turned to answer some
casual inquiry of Mr. Bellew.  The bell rang,
the servant waited; the brother and sister
descended the staircase.  At its foot they
were arrested by Rosamond's voice.

"Stay, Miss Ross!  Agnes! you have forgotten
your flowers."

She came flying down to them, holding the
beautiful camellias and geraniums clasped to
her breast.  Leonard stood nearest to her;
and, before his will could rise to control it,
his impulse— passionate, imperious, overwhelming
— had commanded  him to stretch
out his hand.  He took the flowers.  He
looked at her; and, for a single instant, she
looked at him.

There was no second good night.  Agnes
twined her arm within her brother's.  They
were out in the cold, blank, silent night.

CHAPTER THE THIRD

THE brother and sister walked rapidly.
The rain had ceased, but a damp mist hung
over everything.  The houses looked like
great, gaunt shadows; the street-lamps flared
with a sickly, lurid light; the park they had
to cross was a dreary wilderness, haunted
with strange shapes; for tree and gate and
fence looked ghostly in the vaporous air.
Agnes shivered: her brother drew her closer
to his side.

"Are you cold?" he asked anxiously.
They were the first words he had spoken
since they left the house.

"No; not cold."

A pause.

"You have had a pleasant day ?"

"It was very pleasant."

Another silence.

"How sweet these flowers are!"

Agnes caught them from his hand.

I should like to throw them away ! " she
said, passionately.

Leonard gently reclaimed them, saying
nothing.  He did not inquire the reason of
his sister's sudden emotion; although it had
left her trembling; and, once or twice, a
brief strong sob escaped from her.  He said
nothing.

The narrow, dismal street was reached at
last.  They re-entered their home.  The fire
shone with a subdued glow ; two or three
books lay on the table, Agnes' work-basket,
and the glass of flowers.  Leonard lit the
lamp, his sister sat on the little sofa, and
took up a letter which had arrived in their
absence.  But he only handled it mechanically;
looked at it with eyes whose vision
seemed introverted.  A strange expression
was on his face; such as even his sister had
never seen there before.  It was not the
look she had expected— had dreaded to
see.  That she could have interpreted;
but this was in a language of which she
held no key.  He took up the glowing
flowers he had brought with him, he regarded
them long with deep, thoughtful eyes.  Agnes
sprang to him.

"O! put them away— put them away!

He looked into her face.  Her pleading,
anguished look forced down the calm front
with which he strove to meet it.  So he only
took her in  his arms, and gently pressed her
head against his shoulder, blinding the entreating
eyes that saw too much.  Presently,
in a quiet voice, he said,—

"Yes, Agnes. I will put them away."

In a changed tone, presently, he added:
" You are tired, and it is late.  We will
not sit up longer."

"O! brother, brother! you are cruel to
me."

" Am I?  Do I pain you— have I pained
you, my poor birdie ?"

"Is it no pain to see you suffering; to
know you miserable ; and to be told no
more ?" she cried with the vehemence of her
quick, impatient nature.

He did not answer.

"I thought I knew my brother's heart,"
she went on, " even as he knew mine.  But I
was wrong — wrong.  From the time we were
little children I thought we had shared every
trouble, every difficulty, every trial.  I was
proud, glad to think it.  But you have
been in sorrow and I never knew ; you are
unhappy now, and you try to put me off with
vague words."

"Agnes!  You are not right in this