“I know you will approve of my doing so,” said she, on the occasion of her daughter’s birthday—­the Arnolds made quite a time of it, decking the new Agnes in all the trinkets which had once belonged to the little Agnes, who was gone—­“I know you will approve of my doing so, and I cannot think of any better way in which to express my gratitude to you both.”

Mr. and Mrs. Arnold were moved to tears by these words; in fact, so deep and genuine was their emotion that neither one spoke for some time.  They did nothing but fondle and kiss the child they had adopted.

Thenceforward, instead of Mary Morton, the child was Agnes Arnold.

Years went by, and on the day we first introduced her she was twenty-two years old.  Her own mother and Mr. Arnold had passed away and were laid away to sleep in the dust close by the little Agnes of old.  But like the ivy and the flowers which grew over all their graves, each advancing year made stouter and stronger the invisible ivy that bound Agnes’ heart and Mrs. Arnold’s heart together, and the same advancing year rendered sweeter and sweeter the fragrance of those unseen yet ever-present buds and blossoms, that created a perpetual summer in their minds and affections.

“Mother,” said Agnes as she entered the library and drew up a chair close to Mrs. Arnold’s, “I wish to ask your advice about the affair between George and me.  Do you think I ought to take any more notice of him or Sophia?”

“Well, I scarcely can speak to you advisedly, Agnes, on such a matter,” said Mrs. Arnold.  “You are aware that my first and last thoughts are for your happiness.  But, from what I know of the circumstances, I do not see that you can make any move either one way or another without sacrificing your feelings unjustly.”

“I have kept back nothing from you, mother,” replied Agnes; “you know all, just as well as I do myself.”

“Then I think you did perfectly right, Agnes, darling.  Your course has my emphatic approval.  I can appreciate perfectly that it must cause you to feel wretchedly for some time; but the self-satisfaction it must eventually bring you, will gradually but surely overcome the first disappointment and regret, just as the ever-shining sun pierces and dissipates the heaviest storm cloud.”

“Well, mother, I will await the turn of events, and whichever way, whether for weal or for woe, I shall abide it.  But should I lose George through this, I shall never risk a second such mental agony with any one else.”

“Ah,” smiled Mrs. Arnold, kissing Agnes, gayly, “young hearts like yours are not so brittle as to be easily shattered.  Better fish in the sea, et cetera.  You know the old adage—­but there’s the postman, dear; you run and get the letters he has.”

Agnes did as her mother requested her, and in a few moments more re-entered the room with four letters in one hand, and one letter in the other.  The single missive was directed to herself, in a chirography which she well knew.  Giving the four to her mother, she sat down and opened her own.  It was couched in cold, formal words, instead of gushing sentences as usual, and to say that it chilled and crushed her is to say only the truth.  When her mother had finished her’s, Agnes handed this letter to her with the quietly spoken remark: