Without any attempt to see poor Louisa again, and trusting he might be able to communicate with her in a few days, Walter Evertson left the villa.
When Mr. Oakly next entered the painting-room the money of the artist was still there—but the fatal picture had disappeared.
A few years after his marriage, Mr. Sullivan took his family to Europe, where they remained until within a few months previous to the singular meeting of Louisa and Agatha.
In a beautiful cottage on the borders of Loch Katrine, their lives had been one uninterrupted scene of happiness—always excepting the yearning of a mother’s heart for her lost child. The education of Ruth and Agatha had formed their chief care, and was such as a kind-hearted, intelligent man like Mr. Sullivan was proud to give them, sparing neither money nor precept, and aided, too, by the superior judgment and example of their excellent mother. Ruth had grown up lovely and amiable, and at the time the family returned to America, was affianced to a fine young Scotchman. Poor Agatha had become even more unsightly in figure, yet retained all the simplicity and amiableness of her childhood. Whatever may have been her own private feelings upon her unfortunate deformity, it was rare, indeed, that she ever made allusion to it. When she did, it was with meekness and resignation to her Maker’s will; for early in life had Agatha given herself to Him whose love is more precious than all earthly advantages. She seldom mixed with society, yet when she did, even strangers, after a slight acquaintance, thought no more of her unshapeliness. The sweet expression of her countenance interested, her intelligence charmed them.
When Mrs. Sullivan took possession of her new residence on the Susquehanna, little did she dream how short the distance which separated her from her youngest born; and when Agatha related the fright she had received during her morning ramble, and spoke with such enthusiasm of the beautiful girl who had so nobly come to her assistance, how little did she think whose arms had encircled the trembling Agatha, whose voice it was had tried to soothe her fears.
Mr. Sullivan avowed his determination of calling immediately upon their neighbors to express his thanks to the fair maid, and the gallant young gentleman who had so opportunely come to the assistance of dear Agatha, his pet and favorite. He did so the next day, but he was too late—the house was deserted.
Agatha evinced much regret at the circumstance.
“How sorry I am!” said she; “O, I do hope we may hereafter meet again; the countenance of that charming girl haunts me like a dream—so lovely, and somehow so familiar to me—a stranger, sad yet not a stranger. Sometimes, ma’ma, when you look at me as you do now, I almost fancy her eyes are on me; and then again, only for being a blonde, it appears to me she greatly resembled dear Ruth.”
Mrs. Sullivan changed color, and evidently much agitated, she inquired of her husband if he knew the name of their late neighbor.