Her face flushed again, and the next instant turned paler
than ever; she knew his heart as well as he knew it himself--
she was too distressed to speak. He lifted her hand to his lips,
kissed it fervently, and, without looking at her again, left the room.
The nurse hobbled after him to the head of the stairs: she had not
forgotten the time when the younger brother had been the unsuccessful
rival of the elder for the hand of Agnes. 'Don't be down-hearted,
Master Henry,' whispered the old woman, with the unscrupulous common
sense of persons in the lower rank of life. 'Try her again, when you
come back!'

Left alone for a few moments, Agnes took a turn in the room,
trying to compose herself. She paused before a little water-colour
drawing on the wall, which had belonged to her mother: it was her
own portrait when she was a child. 'How much happier we should be,'
she thought to herself sadly, 'if we never grew up!'

The courier's wife was shown in--a little meek melancholy woman,
with white eyelashes, and watery eyes, who curtseyed deferentially
and was troubled with a small chronic cough. Agnes shook hands
with her kindly. 'Well, Emily, what can I do for you?'

The courier's wife made rather a strange answer: 'I'm afraid
to tell you, Miss.'

'Is it such a very difficult favour to grant? Sit down, and let
me hear how you are going on. Perhaps the petition will slip
out while we are talking. How does your husband behave to you?'

Emily's light grey eyes looked more watery than ever.