as of a mind prepared for and not surprised at what he heard; but when left alone, the smile was gone, he folded his arms on his breast, his head was slightly bent forward, but had there been any present to have remarked him, they would have seen his features move and work with the intensity of internal emotion.  Some mighty struggle he was enduring; something there was passing at his very heart, for when recalled from that trance by the heavy bell of the adjoining church chiming the hour of five, and he looked up, there were large drops of moisture on his brow, and his beautiful eye seemed for the moment strained and blood-shot.  He paced the chamber slowly and pensively till there was no outward mark of agitation, and then he sought for Agnes.

She was alone in an upper chamber of the keep, looking out from the narrow casement on a scene of hill and vale, and water, which, though still wintry from the total absence of leaf and flower, was yet calm and beautiful in the declining sun, and undisturbed by the fearful scenes and sounds which met the glance and ear on every other side, seemed even as a paradise of peace.  It had been one of those mild, soft days of February, still more rare in Scotland than in England, and on the heart and sinking frame of Agnes its influence had fallen, till, almost unconsciously, she wept.  The step of Nigel caused her hastily to dash these tears aside, and as he stood by her and silently folded his arm around her, she looked up in his face with a smile.  He sought to return it, but the sight of such emotion, trifling as it was, caused his heart to sink with indescribable fear; his lip quivered, as utterly to prevent the words he sought to speak, and as he clasped her to his bosom and bent his head on hers, a low yet instantly suppressed moan burst from him.

“Nigel, dearest Nigel, what has chanced?  Oh, speak to me!” she exclaimed, clasping his hand in both hers, and gazing wildly in his face.  “Thou art wounded or ill, or wearied unto death.  Oh, let me undo this heavy armor, dearest; seek but a brief interval of rest.  Speak to me, I know thou art not well.”

“It is but folly, my beloved, a momentary pang that weakness caused.  Indeed, thy fears are causeless; I am well, quite well,” he answered, struggling with himself, and subduing with an effort his emotion.  “Mine own Agnes, thou wilt not doubt me; look not upon me so tearfully, ’tis passed, ’tis over now.”

“And thou wilt not tell me that which caused it, Nigel?  Hast thou aught of suffering which thou fearest to tell thine Agnes?  Oh! do not fear it; weak, childlike as I am, my soul will find strength for it.”

“And thou shalt know all, all in a brief while,” he said, her sweet pleading voice rendering the task of calmness more difficult.  “Yet tell me first thy thoughts, my love.  Methought thy gaze was on yon peaceful landscape as I entered, and yet thine eyes were dimmed with tears.”

“And yet I know not wherefore,” she replied, “save the yearnings for peace were stronger, deeper than they should be, and I pictured a cot where love might dwell in yon calm valley, and wished that this fierce strife was o’er.”