It was growing late, and Agatha began to use the petty tyranny with which Miss Valery had invested her, insisting on her friend's going to bed. “I will presently; only give me time--a little time. I am not so young as you, my child, and have not so many hours to waste in sleeping. There now, I'll be good. Wait--you see I am already pulling down my hair.” She did so, rather feebly. It fell on her shoulders longer and thicker than any one would have believed--it was really beautiful, except for those broad white streaks. “What soft fine hair,” cried Agatha, admiringly. “Ah, you shall go without caps in the spring--I declare you shall.” “Not at my age.” “That cannot be so very ancient. I shouldn't mind asking you the direct question, for I am sure you are not one of those foolish women who are ashamed to tell their age, as if any number of years matters while we keep a young warm heart.” “I am thirty-nine or forty, I forget which,” said Anne, as she drew her fingers through the long locks, gazing down on them with some pensiveness. “I myself never liked hair of this colour, neither brown nor black; but mine was always soft and smooth, and some people used to think it _pretty_ once.” “It is pretty now. You will always be beautiful, dear, dear Anne! I will call you Anne, for you are scarcely older than I, except in a few contemptible years not worth mentioning,” continued the girl, sturdily. “And I will have you as happy, too, as I.” Anne sat silent a minute or two, the hair dropping over her face. Then she raised it and looked into the fire with a calm sweet look that Agatha thought perfectly divine. “I have been happy,” she said. “That is I have not been unhappy--God knows I have not. I have had a great deal to do always, and in all my labour was there profit. It comforted me, and helped to comfort others; it made me feel that my life was not wholly thrown away, as many an unmarried woman's is, but as no one's ever need be.” “But some are. Think of Jane Ianson, of whom Emma wrote me word yesterday. If ever any woman spent a mournful, useless life, and died of a broken heart, it was poor Jane Ianson.” “Her story was pitiful, but she somewhat erred,” Anne answered, thoughtfully. “No human being _ought_ to die of a 'broken heart' (as the phrase is) while God is in His heaven, and has work to be done upon His earth. There are but two things that can really throw a lasting shadow over woman's existence--an unworthy love, and a lost love. The first ought to be rooted out at all risks; for the other--let it stay! There are more things in life than mere marrying and being happy. And for love--a high, pure, holy love, held ever faithful to one object,”--and as she spoke, Anne's whole face lightened and grew young--“no fortune or misfortune--no time or distance--no power either in earth or heaven can alter _that_.”