The invalid signified his willingness, and Arthur, sitting down by him, opened the richly-gilt Bible that lay on the marble stand near at hand, but ere he could commence, there was the rattling of wheels up the carriage-road.  The vehicle stopped at the hall-door, and the bell was loudly rung.

The old man listened for a moment, and then, turning to Arthur, said, “I cannot see any person to-night.  Will you be kind enough to inform the servant, that Mrs. Denham is out, and that I feel too much indisposed to receive any visitors,—­though it is a singular hour for visitors, I must confess.”

Arthur, as he opened the drawing-room door, heard a strange confusion in the hall below, and quickly closing it on the invalid, stepped out to convey Mr. Denham’s orders, and to ascertain the cause of this unusual disturbance.

As he descended the staircase, he was met by the servant, whose honest face was lit up with a strange expression of wonder, joy, and satisfaction.

“Anything amiss?” inquired Arthur, observing the perturbation of the man.

“Oh, no, Sir, but how glad I am that you are here, for I am afraid the news will be too much for Master, and the young lady told me to break it to him gently.”

“What news, what young lady, what do you mean, John?” inquired Mr. Bernard, in a tone of bewilderment.  “I do not understand to what you allude.”

“Beg pardon, Sir, for not telling you before, but it has been so sudden, it quite overpowered me, to think our dear young lady, whom we thought long since buried in the sea”—­

The man stopped abruptly, and turned his head, evidently too much affected to go on.

“For pity’s sake, speak, John, and put an end to this suspense; what about her?”

“Oh, Sir, nothing, Sir; I mean nothing at all, to alarm you, Sir; she has come back again, Sir; she was not drowned, after all, and she is now waiting in the library.  She would have come right up, but I told her how ill Master had been, and then she stopped, for she was afraid the shock might be too much for him.”

Arthur heard not the conclusion of the sentence.

“She is not drowned,—­she has come back again,”—­was all he could think of; and with eager steps, that yet seemed all too slow for his impatient spirit, he hastened to greet the long-mourned wanderer.

He paused a moment at the door of the library, to calm the tumult of his soul, and then slowly opening it, entered the room.

Agnes,—­for it was indeed her own dear self,—­had thrown off her cloak and hood, and sank back on a sofa, almost overcome with emotion, at finding herself once more at home,—­and, perhaps, a little troubled to learn what reception she was likely to expect, from those who had parted with her so coldly.

She started up at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Miss Wiltshire, this is, indeed, one of the happiest moments of my life,” said Arthur, as clasping her hand, he raised it, involuntarily, to his lips, and with a voice, tremulous with emotion, continued: