195
what an impassable barrier bad arisen between them, one which neither of them, by act or word, showed any disposition to pass over.
The short, sad days of the winter time had come, and the snow Iny deep and still upon the buried earth. The light of the sunset had long since grown pale, and the night-shades had gathered in the chamber where Agnes and her cousin Martha stood beside the dying bed of Mrs. Murrey Dr. Reynolds, who had been summoned in the absence of his uncle, was there also, and proposed to remain through the night. This was a support to poor Agnes, who could hardly believe that the blow, so long de- layed, had thus suddenly fallen upon her. There was no thought now of other love in her mind than that which had always burned warmly to- ward the mother, who, in spite of all weakness and sickness, had loved her daughter with ten- der affection. She sank away gently, and Agnes, overwhelmed by the awful shadow of death hovering over them, and by the burdens of gor- row that filled her young heart, knew not that the soul had taken ita flight till Martha, whis- pering softly, said, ‘Agnes, she has left us.” Then the long-suppressed torrent of grief burst forth—she sank upon her knees by the bedside and sobbed like a child. Gradually she became calmer, and with a strong impulse to be alone, she left the chamber and stole to the parlor below. Oh, how sad and desolate it seemed. The fire burned low upon the hearth, the pale moonlight cast the long shadows of the windows apon the carpet, making Agnes shudder as they looked to her excited fancy like the broad, white tablets in the church-yard. She sat down by the window, and pressing her burning cheek to the cold pane, gazed out upon the dreary mid- night landscape. How still and cold lay the earth in its snowy mantle, even as the dead lay above beneath the white coverings. She looked upward, and the stars, smiling as they used in her happier hours, seemed now mocking her desolation. ‘I am all alone,” said she, ‘‘alone in the wide world,” and in her earnestness she exclaimed unconsciously, ‘“‘Alone! alone!” in tones that mocked the bitterness of her spirit, and touched a most sympathizing chord in the heart of him who had entered, all unperceived by the weeping girl. A light touch was upon her shoulder, but though she felt it in the thrill which ran through her frame, she did not move nor speak. That touch lingered a moment, and then « voice, 60 musical in its low tenderness, said, “Agnes!” She raised herself at the sound, unfamiliar from those lips, and met the sympathy that looked down from the deep, mild HERO. 195 eyes of Arthur Reynolds. She still said nothing, but turned her eyes once more out upon the wintry landscape, jealous of the intrusion upon her sacred sorrow. ‘I hope I do not intrude,”’ said he, at length, ‘‘I too have borne the yoke of sorrow in my youth, and know bow hard it is to bear. Yet that yoke makes us strong and patient.” ‘But FE have no strength,” replied she, ‘‘to bear the burden—it seems to crush me.” ‘No strength in yourself indeed, but look upward—there ie strength there.” Agnes in- voluntarily lifted her eyes heavenward, almost as if she expected to see an angel descending with the blessing; and though the stars looked down still as ever, their smiling now brought peace and inward consolation. ‘Agnes,’ said he agnin, after another pause, during which he stood regarding her with looks of longing sad- ness, ‘I ought not to speak of myself now, but I wish I could help you.” ‘You have been a great help to us,” said she, mechanically. ‘If I might think that I could give you such aid and comfort as one whom you loved would have a right to do.” Agnes now turned with won- dering eyes, and said simply, ‘I do not know what you mean.” ‘I mean,” he answered, ear- nestly, ‘that I love you, and would gladly make you my wife, that you might no longer be alone as you just said, but lean upon one whose whole soul and strength belongs to you next to God, dear Agnes.” Agnes felt as if she were dream- ing, and clasped her hands together tightly to make sure that she were really awake. First a full tide of joy rushed over her, then sadly the shadow of a deep humility gathered, and she felt herself again far removed from the comfort that had a moment before flooded her soul. ‘‘Speak,”’ said he, at last, entreatingly, fearing she was offended and slarmed by her silence, ‘just one word.” Agnes rose, and standing face to face with him, said slowly as if speaking her doom, ‘‘No—no, it cannot be; I am not worthy to become the wife of so good s man.” He drew her eagerly, almost violently to him. ‘*Agnes,”’ said he, ‘if that be the only bar be- tween you and me, J claim you as my own from this very hour. You are all that I want you.” “Then you do not know me,” she replied, while she rested, soothed and comforted by the strong hold which he kept, as if he would never again let her part from him. ‘Yes, I know you better than you know yourself. Once I thought you frivolous and heartless, but I have learned you better. I understand the worth of my treasure, and shall know how to value it.” “Then what I am not, you must help me to become.” ‘We will help each other in all that is right,” and the
