"
"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:
"That severs George and me forever in this world, mother.
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