ts on the sky long after he has gone
down.

After tea,--at which meal Mr. Dugdale did not appear, a fact that nobody
wondered at, since he was left to wander about Weymouth at his own sweet
will, without Harrie to catch him and remind him that there was such
a thing as time, likewise such sublunary necessities as eating and
drinking--after tea Miss Valery and Mrs. Harper sat at the window
together.

It was only an inn-window, the panes scribbled over with many names, and
it lighted an ordinary inn-parlour, looking on the esplanade. Yet it
was a pleasant seat; quiet, too, for the town was almost deserted as
winter-time came on. The bay, smoothed by the ebbing tide, lay like
crystal under a sky where sunset and moonlight mixed. Agatha ventured to
look at the sea now. She beheld with a curious interest a sight till now
so unfamiliar, taking a childish pleasure in watching the great white
arm of moon-rays stretch further and further across the water, changing
the ripples into molten silver, and making ethereal and ghostlike every
little boat that glided through them.

By-and-by came a group of wandering musicians, playing very respectably,
as German street-musicians always do. They converted the dark esplanade
and the shabby inn-parlour into a fairy picture of visible and audible
romance.

"It is quite like a scene in a play," said Agatha, laughing and
trying to make Miss Valery laugh. She could not see her clearly in the
moonlight, but she did not like her sitting so quiet and silent.

"Yes, very like a play, with '_Herz, mein Herz,_' for a serenade. What a
sweet old tune it is!"

"I used to sing it once." And Agatha began following the instruments
with her voice. "No, I can't sing. I could sooner cry."

"Why? Are you sorrowful?"

"No--happy. Yet all feels strange, very strange." She crept to Miss
Valery, wrapped her arms round her waist, and laid her head timidly on
her shoulder. Anne drew her nearer, with a more caressing manner than
she ever used to any one. Agatha Harper seemed that night of all nights
to lie very near her heart.

"_Herz, mein Herz,_" died faintly away down the esplanade; there was
nothing but the glitter of the bay, and the moon climbing higher and
higher above the Isle of Portland.

Anne spoke at last, amidst the half-playful, half-tender caresses that
were so dear to Agatha, who had never known what it was to be calmly and
safely in a mother's arms. Lying thus seemed most like it.

"D