CHAPTER XXII.

I had not been long in the conservatory when I heard the wheels of a carriage.  Mr. Bristed had returned.  He ascended the steps:  I heard his voice in the hall.  His first words were an inquiry after my welfare.  He was told that I was better.  Passing through his apartments, he entered the study.  I could see him plainly from the windows of the conservatory.  He looked, I thought, thin and sad; his hair had become sprinkled with gray since the time when I resided in his mansion.  Turning to Mary, who was waiting there for me, he said:  “I feel faint; bring me a cup of tea.”

Mary left the room on her mission, and I stole from my hiding place.

“Mr. Bristed,” whispered I, coming softly up behind his chair.

He started.  “Whose voice is that?  Agnes, where are you?”

“Here, sir,” I answered, as I touched him lightly.

He turned toward me, his face flushed with pleasure, his eyes expectant.

“You, Agnes—­you, verily?  How came you here?  I thought you were ill off your pillow.  What pleasant trick is this you have been playing me?” Then taking both my hands in his and surveying me, his eyes the while beaming with soft pleasure, he said: 

“Oh, I am so happy that you are better.  But you are wrong to come here; you will make yourself ill again.”

I told him how I had awakened, and of my glad surprise in finding myself in my old chamber again, and how I had insisted on coming down to thank him for his kindness in bringing me hither.

“Don’t thank me, Agnes; for you I could do anything.  This place shall always be your home.  Some day, Agnes, you may learn to appreciate the worth of a heart that truly loves you.”

I fell upon my knees before him.  “O Mr. Bristed, I do appreciate!” I cried.  “I do know that you love me.  Let me live for you.  Let me by a life of devotion atone for the mistakes of the past!”

He lifted me up, and folded me to his breast.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A few weeks of balmy spring air and soft sunshine completely restored me to health.

One day when strolling in company with Mr. Bristed through a path blooming with early hyacinths and crocuses, I ventured to ask him about my school.

“It is entirely broken up, Agnes.  After the fearful tragedy that transpired within its walls, your pupils scattered like dust in the wind.  I arrived the next morning after the death of Richard, unconscious of what had occurred in my absence, but intending to take you home with me.  I found you, as I then thought, on your death-bed.  I settled with your separate teachers, and closed the school.  With the French woman who claimed to be Richard’s wife, and with whom he had probably gone through the form of marriage, as with you, I made an arrangement satisfactory to her to sell the property and give her an equivalent for its value.”