his hand--the thin boyish hand--grow cold as
ice and rigid as iron. She uttered a faint cry.

"Agatha, my wife," with the old sweetness in the whisper, "go and sit
down. Leave me to reason with my brother."

"No, let _me_ do that," said one coming between. It was Anne Valery.

She had risen from the chair where, during almost all this time, she
had sat like a statue, only none watched her, not even Agatha. When she
rose, it was with a motion so slow and gliding, her soft black dress
scarcely rustling as she moved, that Frederick Harper might well start,
thinking a supernatural touch was on his arm.

"Anne, is it you? I had forgotten you. No"--he muttered, half to
himself, turning from the contest with his brother to gaze on her--"no,
I never did--never do forget you."

"I believe that. Come and speak to me here."

Unresisted, she put her arm in his, and led him away to the deep
bay-window, circled with a low-cushioned sill, such as delights
children. Anne sat down.

"Are you determined on this cruel course?"

"I must recover my rights," was the sullen answer. "Any man would."

"And when you have done this--supposing it practicable--what further do
you purpose?"

"What further?" He looked puzzled, but at last perceived her meaning.
With an impulse eagerly caught, as Major Harper caught all impulses,
good and ill, he cried--"Yes, I understand you. My first act, on coming
to my property shall be to right poor Agatha."

"I thought so," said Anne, kindly. "But you will not be able. There
are others whose claims will be upon you the instant you have money
to satisfy them--the shareholders. They know nothing of Agatha Bowen.
Remember you expended her fortune as you worked the mine--_in your own
name._"

Major Harper looked confounded with shame. "And you knew all this,
Anne--you! For how long?"

"For some months--ever since I bought Wheal Caroline."

"And you never betrayed me!"

"We were playfellows, Frederick." She spoke softly, and turned her face
to the other side of the bay-window.

He forgot she was old now--he remembered only the familiar voice and
attitude, the same as when in her girlish days she used to sit on the
cushioned window-sill and talk with him for hours.

"Playfellows! Was that all, Anne? Only playfellows?"

"Only playfellows," she repeated firmly. "Never anything more. You
knew that always." And, perhaps unconsciously, Anne looked down on a
ring--plain, not unlike a childish keepsak