Agatha spoke rather crossly; it was a relief to speak so. Anne turned round--she was sitting at the window of the inn bed-chamber looking on Weymouth Bay. “Am I naughty? And you have assumed the right to scold me? That is quite a pleasure. I have had no one to scold me for a great many years.” There was a certain pathos running through her cheerfulness which made Agatha's heart burst. She had lain awake half the night thinking of Anne Valery, and had guessed, or put together many things, which made her come with uncontrollable emotion into the presence of her whose fate had been so knotted up with her own. For that this circumstance had in some way or other brought about Anne's fate--the one fate of a woman's life--Agatha could not doubt. Neither could she doubt who was this “friend.” But she said nothing--she felt she had no right. “Don't look at the sea, please. Look at me. Tell me how you feel this morning.” “Well--quite well. We will go home to-day. What did you tell Mr. Dugdale last night?” “Only what you desired me--that, being wearied, you felt inclined to stay the night at Weymouth.” “That was right.--Look, Agatha, how beautiful the sea is. I must teach you not to be afraid of it any more. Next year”-- She paused, hesitated, put her hand to her heart, as she often did, and ceased to speak; but Agatha eagerly continued the sentence: “Next year we will come and stay here, you and I; or perhaps, as a very great favour, we'll admit one or two more. Next year, when you are quite strong, remember. We will be very happy, next year.” She repeated the words strongly, resolutely, dinning them into Miss Valery's ear, but she only won for answer that silent smile which went to her heart like an arrow. She rushed for safety to the commonplaces of life, to the quick, hasty speeches which relieved her. She began to be very cross about some delay in breakfast. “Never mind me, dear,” said Anne's quieting tones. “I am quite well, and want nothing. Only let us sit still, and look at the sea.” And she drew her from her eager bustling about the inn-parlour to the place where they had both sat the previous night. Agatha balanced herself on the arm of the chair, determined she would not be serious for an instant, and would not let Anne talk. Yet both resolutions were broken ere long. Perhaps it was the bright stillness of the sea view, sliding away round the headland into infinity, which impressed her in spite of herself. Still she struggled against her feelings. “I will not have you so grave, Miss Valery. Mind, I will not.” “Am I grave? Nay, only quiet; and so happy! Do you know what it is to be quite content with everything in one's life--past, present, and to come, knowing that all is overruled for good, forgiving everybody and loving everybody?” Agatha linked her arms tighter round Miss Valery's neck.