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 192 AGNES’ or the future. Her mother had returned from a short journey, weary and nervous, and Agnes, who could always tame her own unquiet nature to gentleness, had little time to care for herself in the presence of the fretful invalid. Then there was something in the wild raging of the storm which buoyed up her spirits, and gave a pleasant sense of life and energy through all ber frame. But a sunny morning had arisen, bright and clear, and Agnes had sauntered forth along the garden walks to find what havoc the wind had made with the flowers. She lifted the trail- ing branches, sighed at the broken stems and blossoms bent down to the damp earth. ‘‘Sum- mer has gone—summer has gone,” said she, sadly, ‘‘why cannot it last the whole year long? Dear blossoms, I cannot bear to have you die.” Agnes had a habit of apostrophizing inanimate objects. Had she been a Greek maiden, she would have believed most devoutly in nymphs, naiads, dryads and fnuns, and as it was, felt a sort of kindred life with all that lives. She walked down the dismantled paths and stood at the gate, feeling cheery in the bright sunshine and the pleasant air. She held up her head as the maple dropped rain-drops down upon her and said, ‘So you have kept some of heaven's gifts to shed upon me. That was a lovely morning welcome.” She cast her eyes downward again, and beheld, but a few paces distant, calling a joyous welcome, her young cousin, Frank Haven, Martha’s younger brother. ‘You are glad to see me, I know you are, cousin Aggie,” said he, with a brotherly salute. ‘Yes, that I am, Frank, but Martha told me that you were not coming till next week. When did you arrive?” ‘Last evening, in all the rain. I made a descent upon the folks dripping like a water-fowl. Reynolds thought he must come, and I expedited maiters so as to have his com- pany and give you a surprise.” ‘And who is Reynolds?” ‘Don’t you know? old Dr. Henry’s nephew and henceforth denizen of the respect- able town of Winfield. He is a fine fellow, too, and a great friend of mine. You must know him, Aggie.” ‘Older than you, J take it, or Dr. Henry would not deign to receive him into his staid bachelor domain.” ‘Oh, a trifle of five or ten years, or so. You are ag particular as ever about age, cousin Aggie. Remember my three months’ seniority.” ‘I am not likely to forget it in your presence, Frank. It was upon that, that all your boyish claim to tyran- nize over me was founded. Well, so Dr. Rey- nolds is your grent friend—lI ought to like him for that, I suppose.” ‘Of course you ought, especially as I have told him all about you, and so prepared him to admire you immensely.” Agnes always had a horror of being talked about, and now her cheek burned with the re- membrance of youthful follies which she had shared with cousin Frank, and would not, as she thought, give to a stranger the most agree- able impression of her. ‘What did you tell him?” inquired she, earnestly. ‘Of our climb- ing trees and running horseback races, or of our playing truant together and losing our way in the woods?” ‘What a memory! Really I had forgotten those creditable facts in our his- tory, or I should have embellished my narrative therewith. But it is not too late now.’ ‘What right had you to be talking about ‘me at all?” ‘‘Don’t be vexed, you have no idea how good I made you.” ‘Then you told falsehoods, for you know I am not good at all.” ‘Not as good as he is certainly—he is one of a thousand. I know no woman worthy of him unless it be sister Martha, and she is not to be spared from the ranks of spinster-hood. As for you, don’t get your demure eyes full of Dr. Reynolds, for I want you to wait a few years longer for me,” and Frank oowed laughingly toward Agnes, whose brown hair, gilded by sunlight, and fall- ing in waves around a face now lit up with dim- pled smiles, made a sweet picture, that brought back forcibly to the young man's mind the re- membrance of early days. They had been as brother and sister from earliest childhood, and in many respects they resembled each other in character. But during the past two years they had been for the most part separated, and Agnes had left him behind in growing maturity. Now at the age of nineteen, she could hardly recog- nize in the gay, light-hearted youth the most confidential friend of her early life. It was with a slight jar of feeling that they met, but this wore away as his overflowing spirits made Agnes more buoyant, and they were soon full of schemes for the enjoyment of the week he was to spend in Winfield.

‘First, an excursion to Prospect Hill,” said Frank, ‘‘when you must ride Dobbin and wear your grey riding-suit.” ‘Dobbin is dead, and the grey riding-suit unpresentable in good so- ciety.”’ ‘*Dobbin dead! so has gone another old friend. Peace to his ashes. And as for the grey habit, you will never look so charming in anything else.” ‘That is a mere boyish fancy; you shall see next week.” ‘Of course,” said Frank, ‘‘I shall invite Dr. Reynolds to join the party.” ‘Not for this once, Frank, please; there are so few of us, and a stranger spoils such s friendly company. You are te be my cavalier, you know.” ‘Oh, I have promised Millie that