All afternoon the house had been oppressively lively, thanks to a visit from the Dugdale children; which little elves were sent out of the way while their mother performed the not unnecessary duty of putting her establishment in order. For Harrie was determined that her house, and none other, should have the honour of receiving Uncle Brian. As Nathanael had taken for granted the same thing, and as Mary Harper had likewise communicated her opinion, that it was against all etiquette for her poor father's only brother to be welcomed anywhere but at Kingcombe Holm, there seemed likely to be a tolerable family fight over the possession of the said Uncle Brian. The little Dugdales had talked of him incessantly all day, communicating their expectations concerning him in such a funny fashion that Agatha was ready to die with laughing, and even Anne, who had insisted on having the children about her, was heard to laugh sometimes. She let little Brian climb about her sofa, and answered all sorts of eccentric questions from the others, never seeming weary. At last, when the sound of merry, young voices had died out of the house, and its large, lofty rooms grew solemn with the wailing of the wind, Anne had retreated to her dressing-room, where she sat watching the fire-light, or answering in fragments to Agatha's conversation. This conversation was wandering enough; catching up various topics, and then letting them drop like broken threads, but all winding themselves into one and the same subject “They will be home to-morrow.” “I hope, nay, I am sure of it, God willing!” said Anne, softly. “He often puts hindrances in our way, but in the end He always works things round, and we see them clearly afterwards. Still we ought hardly to say even of the strongest love or dearest wish we have, 'It _must_ be!' without also saying 'God willing.'” Agatha replied not. This was a new doctrine for her. How rarely in her young, passionless, sorrowless life, she had thought of the few words, oft used in cant, and Agatha hated all cant--“the will of God.” She pondered over them much. “What sort of a night is it” said Anne, at length. “Very dreary and rainy, and the wind is high.” “No matter, it will not reach them. The _Ardente_ will be safe in Southampton-water by this time.” Agatha recurred to the perpetual letter; “Yes, so my husband tells me here.” “And therefore,” Miss Valery continued, laying her hand over the paper, “his good little wife shall fold up this, and not weary herself any more with anxiety about him. Those who love ought above all others to trust in the love of God.” After this they sat patient and content--nay, oftentimes quite merry, for Agatha strove hard to amuse her companion. And the wind sang its song without--not threateningly, but rather in mirth; and the fire burnt brightly, within. And no one thought of them but as friends and servants--the terrible Wind, the devouring Fire.