LITMIR.BIZ

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is. I had it confirmed to-day.”

      “How?”

      “I went to the Colonial Office myself.” (“Kind Anne Valery!” murmured the young man.) “It was best to do so before I told you anything. You, knowing the whole facts, would then decide more readily.”

      “You are right and wise as ever. Now, tell me exactly what you heard.”

      “While a treaty was going forward for the Government purchase of Indian lands, there arose a quarrel, and two red men were upon slight grounds punished cruelly. Then the whole tribe went off in the night, carrying as prisoners two Englishmen—one by force. The other is believed to have offered himself willingly as a hostage, until the reparation of what he considered an injustice shown by his countrymen to the Indians. You may guess who he was.”

      “Uncle Brian, of course,” cried Nathanael, pacing the room. “Just like him! He would do the maddest things for the sake of honour.”

      Anne Valery's eyes flashed in the dark a momentary brightness, as if they were growing young again.

      “But his life is surely safe: all over the Indian country they respect the very name of Brian Harper. No harm can touch him—it is quite impossible!”

      “I think so too.” And Miss Valery drew a long breath. “Still, such danger is very terrible—is it not?” And she turned slightly, to include Agatha in their conversation.

      “Oh, terrible!” the girl cried, deeply interested. “But could he not be sought for—rescued? Could not a party be despatched after him? If I were a man I would head one immediately.”

      Miss Valery, faintly smiling, patted Agatha's hand. It was easy to see that this good heart opened itself at once to Nathanael's young betrothed.

      “That is what I had in my own mind, and should have spoken of to his nephew here—a party of search which the Canadian Government, if urged, would no doubt consent to. Nathanael could propose it—plan it. He is both ingenious and wise.”

      “Ah, he is; he seems to know everything!” cried Agatha warmly. “Surely, Mr. Harper, you could think of something—do something?”

      “I could,” said the nephew, slowly waking from a long interval of thought. “I could do—what perhaps I ought, and will—for him who has been more than a father to me.”

      “What is that?” Agatha asked, while Miss Valery regarded him silently.

      “To go back to America—head a search; or, if that is refused me, search for him myself alone, and never give up until I find him—living or dead.”

      “Ah, do so! that will be right, generous, noble—you could not fail.”

      “There is no saying, Agatha; only, if done, it must be done without delay. I must start at once—in a week—nay a day—leaving England, home, you, everything. That is hard!”

      He uttered the last words inaudibly, and his left hand was suddenly clenched, as he turned and walked once up the room and down again.

      Agatha knew not what to say. Only a great love conscious of the extent of its own sacrifice, would have had boldness to urge the like sacrifice upon him.

      Miss Valery's voice broke the troubled pause:

      “You cannot start yet, Nathanael; you would have to apply to the Government here. It would be impossible for you to leave under at least a fortnight.”

      “Ah!” he sighed, momentarily relieved, which was but natural “Yet, how wrong I am! for my poor uncle's sake I ought not to lose a day. Surely there would be some way of hastening the time, if inquiries were to be set on foot.”

      “I have made all that could be made; still, try yourself, though I fear it is useless. The suspense is bitter, but what is inevitable must be borne,” said Anne, with the smile of one long used to the practice of that doctrine. “And in a fortnight—a fortnight is a long time, Miss Bowen?”

      The smile, flitting to Agatha, took a cheerfulness which hitherto in the sad subject of her talk Miss Valery had not displayed. A certain benevolent meaning, which Agatha rather guessed at than discerned, was likewise visible there.

      “Come,” said she, “for this night we can do nothing; but having settled what we shall do, or rather what Mr. Harper will do, let us make ourselves at rest. Be content, my dear Nathanael. Heaven will take care of him for whom we fear.”

      Her voice trembled, Agatha fancied; and the young girl thought how full and generous was this kind woman's sympathy! likewise how good Nathanael must be to have awakened so deep a regard in such an one as Miss Anne Valery.

      The clock struck ten. “We are early folk in Dorsetshire; but as my old servant Andrews has secured my lodgings close by (I am a very independent woman, you see, Miss Bowen), if you will allow me, I should like to sit another half-hour, and become a little better acquainted with you.”

      Agatha gave her a delighted welcome, and astonished the Ianson family by ordering all sorts of hospitalities. The three began to converse upon various matters, the only remarkable fact being that no one inquired for or alluded to a person, doubtless familiar to all—Frederick Harper. On Agatha's part this omission was involuntary; he had quietly slipped out of her thoughts hour by hour and day by day, as her interest in him became absorbed in others more akin to her true nature.

      But though every one tried to maintain the conversation on indifferent topics, the feelings of at least two out of the three necessarily drew it back to one channel. There they sat, running over the slight nothings, probable and improbable, which in hard suspense people count up; though still the worst Nathanael seemed to fear was the temporary hardship to which his uncle would be exposed.

      “And he is not so young as he used to be. How often have I urged him to be content with his poverty and come home. He shall come home now. If once I get him out of these red fellows' hands, he shall turn his face from their wild settlements for ever. He can easily do it, even if I must stay in Canada.”

      The young man looked at his newly-betrothed wife, and looked away again. It was more than he could bear.

      “Agatha,” said Miss Valery, after a pause, during which she had closely observed both the young people—“I may call you Agatha, for the sake of my friend here, may I not?”

      “Yes,” was the low answer.

      “Well then, Agatha, shall you and I have a little talk? We need not mind that foolish boy; he was a boy, just so high, when I first knew him. Let him walk up and down the room a little, it will do him good.”

      She moved to the sofa, and took Agatha by her side.

      “My dear”—(there was a rare sweetness in the way Miss Valery said the usually unsweet words my dear)—“I need not say, what, of course, we two both think, that she will be a happy woman who marries Nathanael Harper.”

      Agatha, with her eyes cast down, looked everything a young girl could be expected to look under the circumstances.

      “Your happiness, as well as your history, is to me not like that of an entire stranger. I once knew your father.”

      “Ah, that accounts for all!” cried Agatha, delighted to gain this confirmation of her strange impression in favour of Miss Valery. “When was this, and where was I?”

      “Neither born nor thought of.”

      Agatha's countenance fell. “Then of course it was impossible—yet I felt certain—I could even believe so now—that I have seen you before.”

      While the girl looked, a quick shadow passed over Anne Valery's still features, for the moment entirely changing their expression. But soon returned their ordinary settled calm.

      “We often fancy that strangers' faces are familiar. It is usually held to be an omen

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