A mutual friendship was speedily formed between these two, so strangely thrown together by circumstances.  Agnes was charmed with Mrs. Goodwin’s sweet, pensive face, and gentle manners, while her character, so beautifully exemplifying the power of religion to give support and happiness, under all circumstances, won her deepest regard.  On the other hand, the genuine warmth, the unsophisticated manners, still uncorrupted by daily flatteries and blandishments, the lofty and gifted mind, all delighted Mrs. Goodwin, who had never before formed an acquaintance with a female possessing so many attractions, and she gazed at her with wonder and admiration, not unmixed with a sentiment of tenderness and pity, as she thought of life’s slippery paths, and of the injurious influences of worldly pursuits and worldly gayeties.

But to the city Agnes must again return, for the roses have come back to her cheeks, her previous dejection has vanished under the kind and salutary ministrations of her friend, and she has no reasonable excuse for remaining longer; besides, her friends have become impatient at her stay,—­the light and life of their dwelling,—­how can they consent to her tarrying longer; so the long and interesting conversations on high and holy themes, which she had scarcely ever before heard alluded to but in church, must be relinquished, and the quiet scenes of Nature exchanged for the bustle and show of city life.

CHAPTER III.

A twelvemonth has elapsed, since the events recorded in our first chapter.  In the drawing-room of a spacious mansion, in the suburbs of the city where Agnes Wiltshire resided, is seated a young man, apparently perusing a volume which he holds in his hand, but, in reality, listening to a gay group of young girls, who are chattering merrily with his sister at the other end of the apartment.  Scarcely heedful of his presence, for he is partly concealed by the thick folds of a rich damask curtain,—­or, perhaps, careless of the impression produced, they rattled gaily on, for not one of them but in her heart had pronounced him a woman-hater; for were he not such, could he have been insensible to the sweetest and most fascinating smiles of beauty?

But the last sound of their retreating footsteps, the echo of their merry laugh, has died away, and Arthur Bernard emerges from his retreat, in the enclosure of the window.

“I declare, Arthur, it is positively too bad,” exclaimed Ella, his sister, a gay and pretty young girl; “you are certainly the most agreeable company in the world.  Not a syllable to say beyond ‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ ‘good morning,’ or ‘good evening.’  I am really ashamed of you.  You are a woman-hater, I really believe.  I am sure the girls all set you down as such.”

“I am much obliged for their good opinion, and shall endeavor to deserve it,” was the smiling reply.  “But, can you imagine what I have been thinking about, while you and your merry companions have been talking all sorts of nonsense?”