Anne spoke at last, amidst the half-playful, half-tender caresses that were so dear to Agatha, who had never known what it was to be calmly and safely in a mother's arms. Lying thus seemed most like it. “Do you think I care for you, Agatha, my child?” “I cannot tell. Perhaps not, for I am not good enough to deserve it.” “Do you know what first made me care for you?” “No--unless it was for the sake of my husband.” Anne gave no reply, and her husband's name plunged Agatha into such a maze of painful thought, that she was for a long time altogether silent. “Shall I tell you a story, Agatha?” “Anything--anything, to keep me from thinking.” “If I do, it is one you must not tell again, unless to Nathanael, for I would put no secrets between husband and wife.” “Ah, that is right--that is kind. Would that _he_ had thought the same!” “What did you say, dear?” “Nothing! Nothing of any consequence. Don't mind me. Go on.” “It is a history which I think it right and best to tell you. You will both need to keep it sacred for a little while--not for very long.” As she spoke, a shudder passed through Anne's frame. Was it the involuntary shrinking of mortality in sight of immortality? Shortly afterwards she began to talk in her usual sweet tone--perhaps a shade more serious. “'There were once two _friends_--three I should say, but the third far less intimate than the other two. Something happened--it is now too long ago to signify what--which made the elder of the first two angry with his dearest friend and the other. He went away suddenly, writing word to his friend--his own--that he should sail next day, leaving England for ever.” “That was wrong!” cried Agatha. “People ought never to be passionate and unjust in friendship. It was very wrong.” “Hush! you do not know all the circumstances; you cannot judge,” Anne answered hastily. “His friend, who greatly honoured him, and knew what pain his loss would bring to many, wished to prevent his going. She”-- “It was a woman, then?” “Yes.” “And were they _only_ friends?” “They were friends,” repeated Miss Valery, in a tone which, doubtful as the answer was, made Agatha feel she had no right to inquire further. “She never knew how much he cared for her until that last letter he wrote, just after he had gone away. On receiving it, she followed him--which she had a right to do--to the place he mentioned, a seaport from which he was to sail. When she reached it, the vessel had already heaved anchor and was standing out to sea. She saw it--the very ship he was on board--in the middle of the bay.” “The bay! Was it then”-- “Hush, dear, just for a little,--I cannot speak long. It was a stormy day, and few boats would go out. However, there was on the beach a woman who was also very eager to catch the vessel. Together they managed to get a boat, and embarked--this lady I speak of--the woman and a little girl.” Agatha listened with painful avidity.