d bury within
his breast that foul thing--a secret jealousy of his brother.

Especially now, when it seemed as if his love itself were dying or
dead--when on quitting Elizabeth's room, he walked with her, silent, or
making smooth brief speeches, as he would to any other lady--any lady he
had met for the first time, and was handing courteously down to dinner.
Her heart boiled within her! Was she to pour it out before him in
complaint--repentance? Was she to accuse him of jealousy, and be met
with a calm contemptuous smile?--to betray the growing passion of her
heart, in order to light up the few stray embers that might yet be
lingering feebly in his? Never! She walked on haughtily, carelessly,
dumb.

The evening slid on, hardly noticed by her. Night came; when, after
many ceremonious family adieux, which she responded to without ever
hearing--after one frantic rush along the dim passages to Elizabeth's
door, where she drew back and left the tearful good-bye unspoken, for
_he_ was standing there--after all this the Squire put her into the
family coach, with Mrs. Dugdale at her side and Nathanael opposite.
Bidding her farewell, the old man gave, with less stateliness than
tenderness, his fatherly blessing upon her and her new home. They
reached it. Again she laid her head upon a strange pillow in a strange
room, and slept, as she always did when very wretched, the heavy,
stupifying sleep which lasts from night till morning--deadening all
care, but making the waking like that of one waking in a tomb.

Agatha woke with the sunshine full in her eyes, and the early
church-bells ringing.

"Oh, where am I? What day is this? Where is my husband?"

The new maid, Nathanael's foster-sister, was standing by, smiling all
respectful civilities, informing her in broad Dorset that it was Sunday,
time for "missus" to get up, and that "master" was walking in the
garden.

They "mistress" and "master," head and guide of their own
household!--they, two young creatures, who so little time ago had been a
youth and a girl, each floating adrift on life, without duties or ties.
It had seemed very strange, very solemn, under any circumstances, but
now--

"God help me, poor helpless child that I am! Oh, what shall I do?"

Such was the inward sob of Agatha's heart. She almost wished that she
could have turned her face again on the pillow, and slept there safely
for eternity.

But the matin church-bells ceased--it was nine o'clock. She mus