s father's papers.

They were very few--at least those left open in the desk; merely
accounts of the estate, kept with brevity and with much apparent labour;
sixty years ago literature, nay, education, were at a low ebb among
English country gentlemen. But all the papers were so carefully
arranged, that Nathanael had nothing to do but to glance over them and
tie them up--simple yearly records of the just life and honest dealings
of a good man, who transferred unencumbered to his children the trust
left by his ancestors.

"I think," said Nathanael--breaking the dreary silence--"I think there
never was one of the Harper line who lived a long life so stainlessly,
so honourably, as my father."

And somehow, as he tied up the packets, his finger slightly trembled.
Agatha came and stood by him.

"Let me help you; I have ready hands."

"But why should I make use of them?"

"Have you not a right?" she said, smiling.

"Nay, I never claim as a right anything which is not freely given."

"But I give it. It pleases me to help you," said Agatha, in a low tone,
afraid of her own voice. She took the papers from him, and tried to make
herself busy, in her innocent way. It cheered her.

Nathanael watched her for a minute. "You are very neat-handed, Agatha,
and it is kind of you to help me."

"Oh, I would help any one." Foolish, thoughtless words! He said no more,
but went and looked over the cabinet.

This was a sadder duty. There were letters extending over more than a
half century. The Squire received so few that he seemed never to have
burnt one. The oldest--fifty years old--were love-letters, of the time
when people wrote love-letters beginning "Honoured Miss," and "Dear
and respected Sir," overlaying the plain heart-truth with no
sentimentalisms of the pen. The signatures, "Catherine Grey," and
"Nathanael Harper," in round, formal, girl and boy hand, told how young
they were when this correspondence began;--young still, when its sudden
ceasing showed that courtship had become marriage. From that time,
for nearly twenty years, there was scarcely a letter signed Catharine
Harper.

"This looks," said Agatha, who unconsciously to both had come to stand
by her husband and share in his task--"this looks as if they were so
rarely parted that they had no need for letter-writing."

"It was so: I believe my father and mother lived very happily together."

"I should like to read these letters all through, if I might? They are