"Are they, indeed?"

The sharp questioning look startled Agatha. She remembered that first letter of Nathanael's--perhaps he was vexed that she had apparently forgotten it--the letter which had been such a solemn epoch in her young life. She coloured vividly and painfully.

"I mean--that is"--

Her husband looked another way. "You shall have these letters if you so much desire it."

"Thank you. I would like to keep something of your mother's. And she was indeed so happy in her marriage?"

"Very happy, Anne Valery says. My father's was not a perfect temper, but she understood him thoroughly, and he trusted her. He had need; he knew--what is a rare thing in marriage now-a-days--that he had been his wife's first love."

Agatha made no reply, and the conversation dropped.

Next to Mrs. Harper's letters, and preserved with almost equal care, was another packet. It began with a child's scrawl--double-lined, upright and stiff:

"My dear Father,

"Uncle Brian has ruled me this paper, and ruled Anne another. We are all very merry at Weymouth. We don't want to come home, except to see"--(here a word, apparently "_ponies_" had been carefully altered, by a more delicate hand, into something like "_Papa_")--"Anne's love, and everybody's, from your dutiful son,

"Frederick."

"'_Frederick?_'--I thought the letter was yours."

"No, if he had kept any it was sure to be my brothers. Frederick must have them back."

"Let me tie them up," said Agatha stretching out her hand.

"No--no--are they so very precious? Why do you want to touch them?" said he, sharply, drawing them out of her reach.

"Only that I might help you."

Mr. Harper regarded her a moment, and then put back the letters into her lap. "Forgive me, I did not mean to be cross with you. But this task confuses me."

He leaned his elbow on the cabinet, covering his eyes, and stood thus for two or three minutes. Agatha remained silent--who could have intruded on the emotion of a son at such a time? None but a wife who could have stolen into his heart with a closer, dearer claim, and she, alas! _she_ dared not. Weeks ago--when she believed herself wronged--it would have been far easier. The higher he rose, the lower she sank, weighed down by the bitter humility that always comes with fervent love.

She watched him--her heart throbbing, bursting, yearning to cast itself at his feet--yet she dared not.

"Now let us look over some other letters. I wonder whether Mary was right, and it is here we shall find the will!"

He, then, was only thinking of letters and wills! Agatha turned away, and went to sit by the window and watch the chrysanthemums.

At last she was attracted back by her husband's voice.

"This is the will, I see, by the endors.e.m.e.nt. Take it, Agatha; we will not touch it till the Dugdales come. And here are more letters to my father. Do you think I ought to burn them or look them over first?"

The confidential tone in which he spoke soothed Agatha. It was a sort of tacit acknowledgment of her wifely rights to his trust.

"I think, suppose you look them over"--

"I cannot," said he, wearily. "Will you?" And he gave her a handful in her lap. Agatha felt pleased; she thanked him, and turned them over one by one.

"Here is a hand which looks like Miss Valery's."

"It is hers. Set them by."

She opened another, in a careless and very illegible hand, which she could not recognise at all:

"My dear Brother,

"The approaching marriage in your family, of which you inform me, unfortunately cannot alter my plans. I must recover my lost fortunes abroad.

"Frederick told me yesterday his certainty of being accepted by Miss Valery. He might have told me sooner, but perhaps thought me too much of a crusty old bachelor to sympathise with his felicity. Possibly I am.

"You ask if Anne has communicated to me the coming change in her life?

No.

"Farewell, brother, and G.o.d bless you and yours.

"B. L. H."

"Why, this is Uncle Brian!" cried Agatha, giving the letter to her husband. He read it, laid it aside without comment, and sat thinking.

She did the same. Turning, their eyes met; and they understood each other's thoughts, but apparently neither liked to speak. At last Nathanael said:

"It must have been so, though I never guessed it before."

"But I did, though she never openly told me."

"Well, it is a strange world!" mused the young man. "Poor Uncle Brian!"

"When do you expect him home?"

"Any day, every day. Thank G.o.d!"

"Did you not think she seemed a little better yesterday," said Agatha hesitatingly. "Just a very little, you know."

"A little better; is she ill? What, very ill?"--Agatha's mute answer was enough. "Oh, poor, poor Anne! And he is coming home!"

"Perhaps," said Agatha, shocked to see her husband's emotion--"perhaps if we take great care, and she is very happy,--people must live when they are happy"--

"Few would live at all then," was the answer, unwontedly bitter. "Better not--better not; poor Anne! It is a hard, cruel, miserable world."

"Why do you say that, Nathanael?"

He started, and Agatha too, for opening the door, with a bright, clear look, was she of whom they were just talking--Anne Valery.

"I knew I might come in. I heard what you were doing here," and a slight sadness crossed her face. "Is it all done, now?"