“That he would take me,” repeated she firmly, “into a contented and happy home, where I should be made a better woman than I am, and live a life more worthy of myself and of him.”
“You must then esteem him very highly?”
“I do—more than any man I ever knew.”
The Major winced slightly, but quickly recovered himself. “That is, I believe, the feeling with which every woman ought to marry. He who wins and deserves such an attachment is”—and he sighed—“is a happy man!—Happier, perhaps, than those who have remained single.”
Again there ensued a pause, until Major Harper broke it by saying:
“There is one more question—the last of all—which, after the confidence you have shown me, I may venture to ask: do I know this gentleman?”
Agatha replied by putting into his hands his brother's letter.
The moment she had done so she felt remorse for having betrayed her lover's confidence by letting any eyes save her own rest on his tender words. Had she loved him as he loved her, she could not possibly have done so; and even now a painful sensation smote her. She would have snatched the letter back, but it was too late.
Major Harper's eyes had merely skimmed down the page to the signature, when he threw it from him, crying out vehemently:
“Impossible! Agatha marry Nathanael—Nathanael marry Agatha!—He is a boy, a very child! What can he be thinking of? Send his letter back—tell him it is utter nonsense! Upon my soul it is!”