They went as far up-stream as the little steamer could run, and then landed on the bank which abutted on some rushy meadows. It was a dark winter's night--there was not a soul abroad, though some faint light showed they were near the town. The bells of Kingcombe Church were ringing merrily through the mist. “I had quite forgotten,” muttered Duke to himself. “This must be Christmas-eve.” What a Christmas-eve! He half led, half lifted Agatha through the wet fields and along the road. “You will go to my house, and let the Missus and me take care of you, my child?” “No, no; I will go home!” So, without any further argument, he took her to her own gate. There it was, the familiar gate, with its shiny evergreens glittering in the lamp-light; beyond it, the dusky line of Kingcombe Street.. The cottage within was all dark, except for the faintest ray creeping under the hall-door. Marmaduke opened it, and called Dorcas. She came, and when she saw them, rushed forward sobbing. “Oh, missus, missus--is it my missus?” It was indeed the sorrowful mistress, who stood like a spectre in her desolate home. But Dorcas dragged her in, and opened the parlour-door. There was an odour of warmth--bright light, which so dazzled Agatha that at first she saw nothing. Then she saw some one lying on the sofa. And lo! there--half-buried in pillows, haggard and death-like, yet alive--was a face she knew--a calm, sleeping face--falling round it the long light hair. CHAPTER XXX. It was Christmas morning. All the good people of Kingcombe were going to church. One only household did not go to church--there was hardly need, when all their life henceforward would be one long grateful psalm. Agatha came down much as she had done on her first Sunday morning in the same house, and made breakfast in the little parlour. There was a strange hush about her--a joy too solemn for outward expression. When she had finished all her preparations, she stood by the window, looking on the sunny little garden, and listening to the Christ-mas-bells. The tears sprang faster--faster--her lips moved. What she was uttering no ear heard--save One. Whatever the good Kingcombe people thought, He to whom the whole earth is a temple, and all time a long Sabbath of praise--would forgive her that she did not go to church that day. She heard a foot on the stairs, and ran thither like lightning. Nathanael appeared. He was extremely feeble--every motion seemed to give him pain;--and his whole appearance was that of one rescued from the very jaws of the grave. But he looked so happy--so infinitely happy! Agatha half-scolded him. “Why did you not call me? Why not let me help you to walk? I can do it, I know.” And creeping under his arm, she tried to convert her little self into a marvellously strong support. Her husband only smiled, allowing himself to be led to the sofa, laid down, and made comfortable with countless pillows. Then she stood and looked at him. “Are you content?”