“Quite content,” he murmured. “So content, that I want nothing in this wide world.” And by his look his wife knew that this was true. “Agatha, darling, you have been crying? Come and sit here.” She came--making a minute's pretence of smiles, and then fell on his neck, weeping, “Oh! I don't deserve to be so happy--so very happy!” “Child,” he answered, with a grave tenderness, “if we went by desert, who among us would deserve anything? Should I, who was so hard and cold towards my poor little wife, when, if I had said one word out of my real heart, and not kept it down so proudly--Ah! I was very wicked. I, too, did not deserve that God should save me from death, and bring me home to my dear wife's love. Darling! don't let us talk of deservings; only let us try to be good, and always, always love one another.” Oh, the heavenly silence of that embrace, the life of life, that was in it! Now for the first time the bond of full and perfect love was drawn round the husband and wife, sacredly shutting them in from the world without, which could never more come between them, or intermeddle with their sorrows or their joys. At length Agatha freed herself gently from his clasp, saying, after her old habit of hiding emotion under a jest, something about the impossibility that the mistress of a household could idle away her time in this way. She made her husband's breakfast, and insisted on watching him finish it. Drinking, he said with a shudder, “Oh, Agatha, you don't know what it is to be thirsty! The hunger was nothing to it.” “Don't talk of that, don't,” murmured she, turning pale. “I will not, dear. But was it not strange that we should have drifted ashore at Weymouth?” “Very strange.” “Have you sent over the way this morning, to see after Uncle Brian?” “Not yet; but Harrie will take care of him. He is not near so much hurt as you, and I must look after my own husband first.” And once again wistfully gazing at him, she threw her arms round his neck, murmuring, “My own--my own!” The church-bells ceased, the breakfast was removed, and the husband and wife sat together. “Somebody,” said Nathanael, suddenly--“somebody ought to go and see Anne Valery this Christmas-day. “Does she know?” “She knew last night. Marmaduke said he should ride over and tell her.” “What news for her to hear--dear, dear Anne!” And they fell into a silence. Agatha said at last, “When am I to see Uncle Brian?” “Very soon, dear. Yet--stay--is not that some one at the door?” It certainly was. People walked into one another's houses so very unceremoniously at Kingcombe. This visitor, however, paused in the hall, and then opened the parlour-door.