“But they had many things against them. The fire happened at midnight. When it broke out there was no one on deck but one passenger, walking up and down. He was a young man, the sailors say, tall, with long light hair.” The speaker's voice faltered; he could not bear to see the misery he inflicted. At last Agatha motioned to hear more. “One sailor remembers him particularly, because during all the tumult he was almost the only person who seemed to have his wits about him. He was seen everywhere--getting out the boats, quieting the passengers--doing it all, the man says, as steadily as if he had been in his own house on shore, instead of in a burning ship. If there was any one likely to have saved his own life and the lives of others, the sailors think it must be that young man.” “When did they see him last?” “Not five minutes before the ship went down. He was in a boat with several more. They think it was he because of his light hair. He was leaning over towards a floating spar, helping in a woman and child.” “Ah, then it was he! It was my husband!” cried Agatha, clasping her hands, while her countenance glowed like that of some Roman wife, who, dearer even than his life, esteemed her husband's honour. “I believe,” she said, as that rapture faded, and the natural pang returned--“I firmly believe that he has been saved. God would not let him perish. He must have got safe off from the wreck in that boat. Don't you think he has?” Duke could not meet those eager eyes; he fidgeted in his seat, looked down on his hands, and told them over, finger by finger. At last he said, with that peculiar upward look which, amidst all his eccentricities, showed the beautiful serenity of a righteous man--a man who “walked with God:” “Child, we can none of us be certain either way. We can only do all that lies in human power, and leave the event in the hand of One who is wiser and more loving than us all.” Agatha bowed her head, and her heart with it, almost to the dust. She remembered Anne Valery's saying--how much those who loved have need to trust in God. Poor Anne! Never until this minute had any one thought of Anne at home at Thornhurst. Shocked at the selfishness that often comes with great misery, Agatha cried eagerly: “Did you hear anything about Uncle Brian?” “No--nothing.” The quick, husky tone, as Marmaduke turned and walked away, betrayed how keenly the good man suffered, though he never spoke of any sufferings but Agatha's. She was deeply touched. “Take hope,” she said earnestly. “He will be saved. My husband would never forsake Uncle Brian.”