It was silent, solemn, and peaceful. There was a prayer-book by the bedside, open at one of the Christmas-day psalms. No one lingered in the room, or about the couch, with sisterly or friendly care; all was serene but lonely, as Anne's whole life had been. At the opening of the door, a faint voice asked, “Who is there?” “Only I! Oh, Anne, dearest Anne!” There was a pause of weeping silence, though one only wept. Miss Valery soothed the girl in all sorts of tender ways. “You have suffered much, my poor child, but it is over now. Forget it. You will be very happy now.” “And you too--you too, Anne! But why do you lie here so drearily, with no one near you?” “I like it.” “But you will rise soon? You must get well now they are come home. You little think how anxious all are about you.” “That is kind. Everybody was always very kind to me.” After a few moments, during which Anne lay with her eyes shut, and Agatha watched, with an unaccountable dread, the wonderful, spiritual calm of her features, she suddenly said: “You have seen him, have you not?” “Uncle Brian? Yes.” “How does he look? Was he harmed by that--that awful three days at sea? “No; he seems quite well. He drove me to Thornhurst.” “Then he is here?” And there came a slight trembling over the placid face. “He had to go back to Kingcombe, I believe,” said Agatha, hesitating. “But he told me to say, if you liked to see an old friend--He does not know how ill you have been,” she added, with irrepressible vexation, “or else I should have felt very, very angry, even with Uncle Brian.” “Hush! You do not understand him yet,” said Anne, gently, as she once more closed her eyes. Many thoughts seemed to sweep over her, but none left a trace of bitterness behind. She was past all restlessness or suffering now. “How are you all going to keep Christmas, Agatha? You ought to be very happy. After such a week as this has been, everything seems happiness now.” “Not everything--when you are not with us, Anne--I mean, not with us to-day.” “But I shall be with you, to-day and every day. I believe I shall never be far away from Thornhurst and Kingcombe, and Kingcombe Holm.” She said this more to herself than to Agatha, who listened, her throat choking; then answered abruptly, “You are talking too much--you must be quiet.” Anne smiled--one of her old smiles, so full of cheerfulness. “I think I am quiet enough already, but I will obey.” She turned her face to the pillow, and lay for a long time without moving. At length she said: “Agatha, I want you to do something for me.” “What is it?” “I would like to see your husband, and my old friend, Mr. Brian Harper. Will you go and fetch them?” “I will to-morrow, but”-- “No--dear, not to-morrow; I must see them to-day--this very Christmas-day. Go--you will not be away long. And we will send the carriage, so that the journey can do Nathanael no harm.”