st merry Christmas, afore the family was broke
up, and Mr. Frederick turned soldier, and Mr. Locke Harper--that's his
uncle--went away with little Master Nathanael, Mr. Locke Harper as is
now."

And Agatha had laughed very heartily at the idea of her husband being
"little Master Nathanael;" but she had not told this conversation to
Anne Valery.

All afternoon the house had been oppressively lively, thanks to a visit
from the Dugdale children; which little elves were sent out of the way
while their mother performed the not unnecessary duty of putting her
establishment in order. For Harrie was determined that her house,
and none other, should have the honour of receiving Uncle Brian. As
Nathanael had taken for granted the same thing, and as Mary Harper had
likewise communicated her opinion, that it was against all etiquette for
her poor father's only brother to be welcomed anywhere but at Kingcombe
Holm, there seemed likely to be a tolerable family fight over the
possession of the said Uncle Brian.

The little Dugdales had talked of him incessantly all day, communicating
their expectations concerning him in such a funny fashion that Agatha
was ready to die with laughing, and even Anne, who had insisted on
having the children about her, was heard to laugh sometimes. She let
little Brian climb about her sofa, and answered all sorts of eccentric
questions from the others, never seeming weary. At last, when the sound
of merry, young voices had died out of the house, and its large, lofty
rooms grew solemn with the wailing of the wind, Anne had retreated to
her dressing-room, where she sat watching the fire-light, or answering
in fragments to Agatha's conversation.

This conversation was wandering enough; catching up various topics, and
then letting them drop like broken threads, but all winding themselves
into one and the same subject "They will be home to-morrow."

"I hope, nay, I am sure of it, God willing!" said Anne, softly. "He
often puts hindrances in our way, but in the end He always works things
round, and we see them clearly afterwards. Still we ought hardly to
say even of the strongest love or dearest wish we have, 'It _must_
be!' without also saying 'God willing.'"

Agatha replied not. This was a new doctrine for her. How rarely in her
young, passionless, sorrowless life, she had thought of the few words,
oft used in cant, and Agatha hated all cant--"the will of God." She
pondered over them much.

"What sor