Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/207

 194 AGNES.

interest than ever she had known before had suddenly arisen in her heart. She felt strong in the strength of the manly presence beside her, and better in the goodness that shone from every word and look of his. For once his reserve gave way, though he used no more tender word than friend would say to friend; and Agnes, touched by the scene through which she had just passed, listened, and answered with an unwonted gentle- ness. For the first time, she heard of his early life, of the death of parents, and of the care and love of an elder sigter who had been to him as a mother. ‘Only a year ago,” said he, ‘I stood beside my sister’s death-bed, and it seemed as if a glory passed away from earth, as she became a saint in heaven. I cannot tell you how good she was. While she lived, her sweet example was & constant incentive to me, and now, that I walk lonely among men, I[ seem to feel her beside me day and night like a guardian presence.”

What a high standard of excellence is his, thought Agnes, and I—I never can seem to him more than a frivolous girl. Yes, as Frank said, I am not good enough to be even his friend. He will seek another saint like his sister, and leave me to be as wicked as I will. But the bitter mood did not come upon her to-day, nor for many days. But when she next saw him after- ward, her mocking genius arose within her, and she found a sort of pleasure in seeing that her ligktness, assumed though it was, had the power to pain him. She was at her cousin Martha's, ns Frank was leaving, to bid him farewell, and after he had left them, Arthur Reynolds and she walked to her home together. ‘‘I am so sorry Frank has gone,” said she, ‘‘it is so agreeable to be in contact with right merry spirits. For my part, I am heartily tired of good people.” ‘You are more fortunate than the rest of the world, Miss Murray, if you have the opportunity of be- coming weary of goodness.” ‘Ah! when one’s lot happens to be cast among such grave per- sonages as you and cousin Martha, there is no luck. Say, don’t you yourself sometimes grow tired of being so staid and wise?’ Though he laughed, it was in so constrained a manner that Agnes noticed the impression that her careless words had made; but she simply said, as they parted, ‘‘Excuse me, if Iwas rude. I did not intend it.” ‘I cannot flatter myself that I am worthy to be included in the class to which you referred, Miss Murray. Yet, tire of me if you must; but God grant that you may never tire of what is truly excellent and right,” and he looked at her with an expression of such earnestness, with a faint mingling of reproach, that it made Agnes’ cheek tnke a deeper glow, for the moment, and dwelt in her memory for a long time afterward, Ah! said he to himself, as he turned away from her, she is indeed as frivo- lous as I have sometitnes feared. What rest cou!d be found with such a nature as hers? And yet I thought her capable of so much, and hoped to mould that character, 80 impulsive, so wayward, and yet so charming. And so she told me she was tired of such persons a3 myself and cousin Martha. If she could have loved me, I know it would have been with so deep and strong a love that she would have overcome her faults for my sake; but now she is unworthy and I will think no more of her.

Agnes entered the house, her eyes filling with tears and a burden upon her heart. ‘Why was I so foolish?’ said she, ‘I did not mean it. Why do I so trifle away his regard, if he has any for me, when I can’t help knowing that I cherish it as the apple of my eye? Now, he must perfectly despise me; but I must love him still, though I must hate myself for loving thus unsolicited, uncared for. How wenk I an. I! wish I had never, never known him. I wish he would marry cousin Martha, and then I could at least see him every day, and prove to him that I am not altogether so vain and trifling as he hag tnken me to be.” Poor Agnes! a heavier cloud seemed to have settled itself upon her life than ever before, and she lifted her eves imploringly upward, and said in the depth of her girlish trouble, oh! shall I ever be happy again! But she grew stronger, and resolved in that quiet hour that henceforth she would be more stead- fast, more worthy the love of a strong and good man, even though that love were denied her, and that her future life should be more fruitful in good to herself and others. That vow, like all made with an honest and resolute purpose, was not made in vain. Days and months rolled by, and the struggle still continued, while Agnes, patient and earnest, knew not the depth of the life into which she was growing, nor guessed, in the midst of discouragements, how fast she was pressing toward the greatness of her standard. As the winter came on, her mother had become more and more fecble, and the daughter was seldom absent from her side. Her tenderness and watchful love made her indispensable to the invalid, and so she seldom went abroad, except daily for a hurried walk. Sometimes, though rarely in the absence of his uncle, Arthur Rey- nolds had come to the sick chamber; but, gentle and sympathizing as he always was, Agnes felt that he scarcely entertained even a friendly regard for her, and since that well-remembered evening which now seemed so long, long ago,