There was a pause, during which the two women sat silent and grave. And the wind howled round the house, and the fire crackled harmlessly in the chimney, but they noticed neither--the fierce Wind--the awful Fire. “It is a wild night,” said Agatha at last. “But they are landed at Southampton long ago. Last night was lovely--such a moon! and they were sure to sail, because the _Ardente_ only plies once a week, and there is no other boat this winter-time. Oh, yes! they are quite safe in Southampton. I shouldn't wonder if they were both here to breakfast to-morrow.” And Agatha, with her little heart beating quick, merrily, and fast, never thought to look at her companion. Anne's eyes were dilated, her lips quivering--all her serenity was gone. “To-morrow--to-morrow,” she murmured, and as with a sudden pain, put her hand to her chest, breathing hard and rapidly. “Agatha, hold me fast--don't let me go--just for a little while.--I _cannot_ go!” She clung to the young girl with a pallid, frightened aspect, like one who looks down into a place of darkness, and shudders on its verge. Never before had that expression been seen in Anne Valery. Slowly it passed away, leaving the calmness that was habitual to her. Agatha hung round her neck, and kissed her into smiles. “Now,” she said, rising, “let us both go to bed. You look tired, my child, and we must have your very best looks when you make breakfast for _them_ in the morning. That is, if they both come here.” “They will come--my husband says so. He knows, and is determined that Uncle Brian shall know--everything.” Anne sat still--so still, that her young companion was afraid she had vexed her. “No, dear--not vexed. But no human being can know everything! It lies between him and me--and God.” So saying, she rose, fastened up the long hair in which the last lingering beauty of her youth lay--put on her little close cap, and was again the composed gentle lady of middle age. She rung for the housekeeper, and gave various orders for the morning, desiring a few trivial additions to the breakfast, which would have made Agatha smile, but that she noted a slight hesitation in the voice that ordered them. “Is there anything your husband would like especially? I don't quite understand his ways.” Agatha blushed as she answered--“Nor I.” “You will not answer so in a few months hence,” said Anne, when they were alone. “It is a very unromantic doctrine, but few young wives know how much the happiness of a home depends on little things--that is, if anything can be little which is done for _his_ comfort, and is pleasant to _him_. There's a lecture for you, Mistress Agatha. Now go to bed, and rise in the morning to begin a new era, as the happiest and best wife in all England.” “I will,” cried Agatha, laughing, though with a tear or two in her eyes. To think how much Anne had guessed of the wretched past, yet, with true delicacy, how entirely she had concealed that knowledge!