of Hadley.  Then she had read a singular advertisement for a lost ring, a seal ring, with some Arabic letters engraved upon it.  I was of opinion that Miss Agnes was somehow connected with this signet-ring,—­that it had some influence over her fate.  Jessie thought that Miss Agnes must have been formerly engaged to Mr. Abraham Black, and that when she heard of his marriage——­but I interrupted her in this suggestion.  In the first place, she could never have been engaged to a Mr. Abraham Black; and then, nobody who could marry Miss Agnes would think of taking up with a Susan Whitcomb.  So Jessie fell back upon Paul Shattuck, and, to tell the truth, we had some warm discussions on the subject.

Time passed on, and it was June.  One lovely afternoon, we had quite a frolic with the hay, the grass having been cut on the lawn in front of the house.  Miss Agnes had been with us.  We had made nests in the hay, and had buried each other in deep mounds of it, and had all played till we were quite tired.  I went into the house in search of Miss Agnes, after she had gone in, and found her sitting at one of the side windows.  I came near, then wished to draw back again, for I saw there were tears in her eyes.  But when I found she had seen me, I tried to speak as if I had seen nothing.

“How high the cat has to step, to walk over the grass!” I said, as I looked out of the window.

Miss Agnes put her arms about me.  “You wonder, because you see me crying,” she said, and looked into my face.

“I never before saw anybody cry that was grown up,” said I.

Miss Agnes smiled and said, “They tell children it is naughty to cry; but sometimes you can’t help crying, can you?” And her tears came dropping down.

“Oh, Miss Agnes,” I said, “I wish I could help your crying!  It is too bad!—­it is too bad!”

“Yes, it is very bad,” she said, as she held me in her arms, “it is very bad; but you do help me.  You shall be my little friend.”

That was all.  She did not tell me anything;—­yet I felt as if she had said a great deal, and I did not speak of this to Jessie.

A few days after, as I was passing the door of the parlor, I fancied I heard a little cry, and it sounded to me as if I had heard the voice of Miss Agnes.  I hurried in.  A stranger had just entered the room.  But before me stood Miss Agnes, pale, erect, her lips quivering.  She held fast a chair, which she had drawn up in front of her, as one would place a shield between one’s self and some wild animal.  How slender and defenceless she looked!  I followed the terrified glance of her eyes.  There, in the middle of the room, stood a stranger,—­not so terrible to look upon, for he was young, and it seemed to me I had never seen so handsome a man.  His black hair and eyes quite pictured the hero of my romance.  He was strongly built, and directly showed his strength by seizing a large marble table that stood near the centre of the room, and wheeling it between himself and Miss Agnes.