It was something to be even near Agnes--to see the things belonging to her that were scattered about the room.

There, in the corner, was her chair, with her embroidery on the work-table by its side.

On the little easel near the window was her last drawing, not quite finished yet.

The book she had been reading lay on the sofa, with her tiny pencil-case in it to mark the place at which she had left off.

One after another, he looked at the objects that reminded him of the woman whom he loved--took them up tenderly--and laid them down again with a sigh.