Entering a very pretty drawing-room, long low and old-fashioned, I saw two ladies, one a matron, the other a lovely young girl.  Sir John introduced me to his wife and then to Agatha, his daughter.

Looking up, I saw my fate.  Never believe those cold-natured, cold-hearted people who tell you that love grows from respect.  It does not.  It comes into existence all at once—­suddenly, as a flower is kissed into color by the sun.  When I entered Harden Manor, I was heart-whole, fancy-free, loving no one but Clare; after one upward look in Agatha Thesiger’s face, I loved her with a love that was my doom.

Sir John looked at me in amazement.

“I—­I did not know you had a daughter, Sir John.”

“Ah! but I have, and a very precious one, too.  Poor Sir Barnard was very fond of Agatha; he used to call her his sunbeam.  I was almost jealous of him at times.”

“There was no need, papa,” said a sweet voice, the very sound of which made me tremble.

Why had mademoiselle never mentioned this young girl, so fair, so lovely?  Why had she told me nothing about her?  I should like to describe her, reader, so as to make you love her.  She was tall, very little above the medium height, slender, graceful, with a delicate, arched neck and the “fairest face the sun e’er shone on.”  Not beautiful—­that word would not describe her; fair, sweet and lovely.  She had no brilliant or vivid coloring; her complexion was clear, with the faintest rose-bloom; her eyes large and blue, her lips sweet and sensitive; a white brow and a wealth of soft, brown hair.  She was no queenly beauty; she had not Coralie’s brilliancy and bright coloring, but she was the fairest and most lovable girl who ever made a man’s heart glad.

I did not know how the next few minutes passed.  Sir John and Lady Thesiger were talking about the neighborhood, and I was thinking that if Agatha bid me lie down there at her feet and die for her sweet sake, I should do so with a smile.

When I came to my senses, Lady Thesiger was asking me if I would dine with them the week following; they were expecting some visitors from London.  I am sure she must have thought me almost an imbecile, I answered her in such a confused, hesitating way.

All the time Agatha sat opposite to me, her lovely eyes drooping over the drawing on which she was engaged when I entered.  I could bear it no longer; come what might, I must see those eyes.  I went over and stood by her side.

Alas!  I had rarely, if ever, spoken to any young ladies except Clare and Coralie.  I had crossed the room purposely to speak to her.  Standing by her chair, every word I had ever known in my life died from memory, I could not think of one thing to say.

Bending over the picture, I asked if she were fond of drawing, and then I hated myself for the utter imbecility of the question.

When at once the blue eyes were raised to mine all constraint died away; they kindled a fire in my heart that nothing could ever extinguish.