"Yes, that certainly complicated it," Mrs. March admitted. "But I don't think, if he'd been a false nature, he'd have owned up as he did. You see, he didn't try to deny it; and that's a great point gained." "Yes, that is true," said Agatha, with conviction. "I saw that afterwards. But you don't think, Mrs. March, that I was unjust or--or hasty?" "No, indeed! You couldn't have done differently under the circumstances. You may be sure he felt that--he is so unselfish and generous--" Agatha began to weep into her handkerchief again; Mrs. March caressed her hand. "And it will certainly come right if you feel as you do." "No," the girl protested. "He can never forgive me; it's all over, everything is over. It would make very little difference to me, what happened now--if the steamer broke her shaft, or anything. But if I can only believe I wasn't unjust--" Mrs. March assured her once more that she had behaved with absolute impartiality; and she proved to her by a process of reasoning quite irrefragable that it was only a question of time, with which place had nothing to do, when she and Burnamy should come together again, and all should be made right between them. The fact that she did not know where he was, any more than Mrs. March herself, had nothing to do with the result; that was a mere detail, which would settle itself. She clinched her argument by confessing that her own engagement had been broken off, and that it had simply renewed itself. All you had to do was to keep willing it, and waiting. There was something very mysterious in it. "And how long was it till--" Agatha faltered. "Well, in our ease it was two years." "Oh!" said the girl, but Mrs. March hastened to reassure her. "But our case was very peculiar. I could see afterwards that it needn't have been two months, if I had been willing to acknowledge at once that I was in the wrong. I waited till we met." "If I felt that I was in the wrong, I should write," said Agatha. "I shouldn't care what he thought of my doing it." "Yes, the great thing is to make sure that you were wrong." They remained talking so long, that March and the general had exhausted all the topics of common interest, and had even gone through those they did not care for. At last the general said, "I'm afraid my daughter will tire Mrs. March." "Oh, I don't think she'll tire my wife. But do you want her?" "Well, when you're going down." "I think I'll take a turn about the deck, and start my circulation," said March, and he did so before he went below. He found his wife up and dressed, and waiting provisionally on the sofa. "I thought I might as well go to lunch," she said, and then she told him about Agatha and Burnamy, and the means she had employed to comfort and encourage the girl. "And now, dearest, I want you to find out where Burnamy is, and give him a hint. You will, won't you! If you could have seen how unhappy she was!"