in her heart a delicate sense of sisterhood with this beautiful young man who sat there and talked thus submissively of death.
"Can nothing be done?" she said.
He shook his head and smiled a little. "Nothing but to try and get what pleasure I can from this little remnant of life."
Though he smiled she felt that he was very serious; that he was, indeed, deeply agitated, and trying to master his emotion.
"I am afraid you get very little pleasure," Agatha rejoined. "You seem entirely alone."
"I am entirely alone. I have no family,—no near relations. I am absolutely alone."
Agatha rested her eyes on him compassionately, and then—
"You ought to have spoken to us," she said.
He sat looking at her; he had taken off his hat; he was slowly passing his hand over his forehead. "You see I do—at last!"
"You wanted to before?"
"Very often."
"I thought so!" said Agatha, with a candor which was in itself a dignity.
"But I couldn't," said Mr. Longstaff. "I never saw you alone."
Before she knew it Agatha was blushing a little; for, to the ear, simply, his words implied that it
