She told him this—quite innocently, and then, recollecting herself, coloured deeply. But Nathanael looked perfectly happy.
“The likeness is very flattering,” said he, smiling. “Yet I would only wish to be—what you called me once, the first evening I saw you. Do you remember?”
“No.”
“Ah—well—it was not probable you should,” he answered, as if patiently taking upon himself the knowledge which only a strong love can bear—that it is alone in its strength. “It was merely when they were talking of my name, and you said I looked like a Nathanael. Now, do you remember?”
“Yes, and I think so still,” she replied, without any false shame. “I never look at you, but I feel there is 'no guile' in you, Mr. Harper.”
“Thanks,” he said, with much feeling. “Thanks—except for the last word. How soon will you try to say 'Nathanael?'”
A fit of wilfulness or shyness was upon Agatha. She drew away her hand which he had taken. “How soon? Nay, I cannot tell. It is a long name, old-fashioned, and rather ugly.”
He made no answer—scarcely even showed that he was hurt; but he never again asked her to call him “Nathanael.”
She went on with her work, and he sat quietly looking at her for some little time more. Any Asmodeus peering at them through the roof would have vowed these were the oddest pair of lovers ever seen.
At last, rousing himself, Mr. Harper said: “It is time, Agatha”—he paused, and added—“dear Agatha—quite time that we should talk a little about what concerns our happiness—at least mine.”