CHAPTER XIX.
A SORT OF ANGEL.
Irene pulled with swift, sure strokes across the summer lake. The lake was one of the great features of the place. It was a quarter of a mile wide, and half a mile in length, and had been carefully attended to by owner after owner for generations; so that groups of water-lilies grew here, and swans arched their proud white necks and spread out their feathered plumes. Little Agnes had never seen anything so lovely before, and when she bent forward and saw her own reflection in the water she gave a scream of childish pleasure.
"Oh, how happy sister Emily must be!" was her remark.
Again Irene made the strange answer, "Don't ask for a day or two."
Then little Agnes raised grave dark eyes to Irene's face.
"But any one would be happy with you," she said. "To look at you is such a comfort."
"Tell me about yourself," said Irene suddenly, shipping her oars, bending forward, and fixing her intensely bright eyes on the child.
She did not feel at all like a changeling now. That wild thing in her breast was still. She felt somewhat like a mother, somewhat like an ordinary little girl might feel towards a loved baby-sister, or even towards a doll. This new sense of protection had a marvelous effect upon her. She would not have minded if little Agnes had crept into her arms and laid her head on her breast.