“Misfortune? God forbid! Surely I do not look as if it were a misfortune? I am only too glad—too happy. Whatever results from it, I am indeed happy!”
“Then so am I, whatsoever it may be,” returned Agatha, softly. “Still, do tell me.”
Her bridegroom, as he pressed her to his bosom, looked as if he had for the moment forgotten all about his tidings; but afterwards, when her second entreaty came, he took out a letter and bade her read, holding her fast the while with a light firm hand on her shoulder. He seemed almost to fear that at the news he brought she would glide out of his grasp like snow.
“It is an odd hand—strange to me,” said Agatha. “Is it”—and a sudden thought struck her—“is it——”
“Yes—thank God.”
“Oh, then, he is safe—I am so glad—so glad!” cried Agatha, in the true sympathy of her heart. But her very gladness appeared to affect contrariwise the troubled mood of her lover. His hand dropped imperceptibly from her shoulder—he sat down.
“Read the letter, which came late last night. I thought you would be pleased—that was why I thus disturbed you.”
Agatha, who had not yet learned the joy or pain of reading momently the changes of a beloved face, immediately perused the letter. It was rather eccentric of its kind:
“Lodge of O-me-not-tua.
“My dear Boy,