erred in attributing to other people natures and purposes as unworldly and spiritual as his own.  Thus had he fallen, in his utter simplicity, into the attitude of a go-between protecting the advances of a young lover with the shadow of his monk’s gown, and he became awkwardly conscious, that, if Elsie should find out the whole truth, there would be no possibility of convincing her that what had been done in such sacred simplicity on all sides was not the basest manoeuvring.

Elsie took Agnes down with her to the old stand in the gateway of the town.  On their way, as had probably been arranged, Antonio met them.  We may have introduced him to the reader before, who likely enough has forgotten by this time our portraiture; so we shall say again, that the man was past thirty, tall, straight, well-made, even to the tapering of his well-formed limbs, as are the generality of the peasantry of that favored region.  His teeth were white as sea-pearl; his cheek, though swarthy, had a deep, healthy flash; and his great velvet black eyes looked straight out from under their long silky lashes, just as do the eyes of the beautiful oxen of his country, with a languid, changeless tranquillity, betokening a good digestion, and a well-fed, kindly animal nature.  He was evidently a creature that had been nourished on sweet juices and developed in fair pastures, under genial influences of sun and weather,—­one that would draw patiently in harness, if required, without troubling his handsome head how he came there, and, his labor being done, would stretch his healthy body to rumination, and rest with serene, even unreflecting quietude.

He had been duly lectured by his mother, this morning, on the propriety of commencing his wooing, and was coming towards them with a bouquet in his hand.

“See there,” said Elsie,—­“there is our young neighbor Antonio coming towards us.  There is a youth whom I am willing you should speak to,—­none of your ruffling gallants, but steady as an ox at his work, and as kind at the crib.  Happy will the girl be that gets him for a husband!”

Agnes was somewhat troubled and saddened this morning, and absorbed in cares quite new to her life before; but her nature was ever kindly and social, and it had been laid under so many restrictions by her grandmother’s close method of bringing up, that it was always ready to rebound in favor of anybody to whom she allowed her to show kindness.  So, when the young man stopped and shyly reached forth to her a knot of scarlet poppies intermingled with bright vetches and wild blue larkspurs, she took it graciously, and, frankly beaming a smile into his face, said,—­

“Thank you, my good Antonio!” Then fastening them in the front of her bodice,—­“There, they are beautiful!” she said, looking up with the simple satisfaction of a child.

“They are not half so beautiful as you are,” said the young peasant; “everybody likes you.”

“You are very kind, I am sure,” said Agnes.  “I like everybody, as far as grandmamma thinks it best.”