“Whom do you take me for, Agnes, that you speak thus?” said the cavalier, smiling sadly.

“Are you not the brother of our gracious King?” said Agnes.

“No, dear maiden; and if the kind promise you lately made me is founded on this mistake, it may be retracted.”

“No, my Lord,” said Agnes,—­“though I now know not who you are, yet if in any strait or need you seek such poor prayers as mine, God forbid I should refuse them!”

“I am, indeed, in strait and need, Agnes; the sun does not shine on a more desolate man than I am,—­one more utterly alone in the world; there is no one left to love me.  Agnes, can you not love me a little?—­let it be ever so little, it shall content me.”

It was the first time that words of this purport had ever been addressed to Agnes; but they were said so simply, so sadly, so tenderly, that they somehow seemed to her the most natural and proper things in the world to be said; and this poor handsome knight, who looked so earnest and sorrowful,—­how could she help answering, “Yes”?  From her cradle she had always loved everybody and every thing, and why should an exception be made in behalf of a very handsome, very strong, yet very gentle and submissive human being, who came and knocked so humbly at the door of her heart?  Neither Mary nor the saints had taught her to be hard-hearted.

“Yes, my Lord,” she said, “you may believe that I will love and pray for you; but now you must leave me, and not come here any more,—­because grandmamma would not be willing that I should talk with you, and it would be wrong to disobey her, she is so very good to me.”

“But, dear Agnes,” began the cavalier, approaching her, “I have many things to say to you,—­I have much to tell you.”

“But I know grandmamma would not be willing,” said Agnes; “indeed, you must not come here any more.”

“Well, then,” said the stranger, “at least you will meet me at some time,—­tell me only where.”

“I cannot,—­indeed, I cannot,” said Agnes, distressed and embarrassed.  “Even now, if grandmamma knew you were here, she would be so angry.”

“But how can you pray for me, when you know nothing of me?”

“The dear Lord knoweth you,” said Agnes; “and when I speak of you, He will know what you need.”

“Ah, dear child, how fervent is your faith!  Alas for me, I have lost the power of prayer!  I have lost the believing heart my mother gave me,—­my dear mother who is now in heaven.”

“Ah, how can that be?” said Agnes.  “Who could lose faith in so dear a Lord as ours, and so loving a mother?”

“Agnes, dear little lamb, you know nothing of the world; and I should be most wicked to disturb your lovely peace of soul with any sinful doubts.  Oh, Agnes, Agnes, I am most miserable, most unworthy!”

“Dear Sir, should you not cleanse your soul by the holy sacrament of confession, and receive the living Christ within you?  For He says, ‘Without me ye can do nothing.’”