She lived alone with an old nurse devoted to her,
on a modest little income which was just enough to support the two.
There were none of the ordinary signs of grief in her face,
as she slowly tore the letters of her false lover in two, and threw
the pieces into the small fire which had been lit to consume them.
Unhappily for herself, she was one of those women who feel too deeply
to find relief in tears. Pale and quiet, with cold trembling fingers,
she destroyed the letters one by one without daring to read them again.
She had torn the last of the series, and was still shrinking
from throwing it after the rest into the swiftly destroying flame,
when the old nurse came in, and asked if she would see 'Master Henry,'--
meaning that youngest member of the Westwick family, who had publicly
declared his contempt for his brother in the smoking-room of
the club.
Agnes hesitated. A faint tinge of colour stole over her face.
There had been a long past time when Henry Westwick had owned
that he loved her. She had made her confession to him,
acknowledging that her heart was given to his eldest brother.
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