should like to have talked that matter over once again with poor Brian."

And Duke seemed wandering into his mild, dreamy philosophies, till
Agatha recalled him.

"Now, what is to be done? You said, if we heard nothing, the boats must
be drifting about somewhere in the Channel"--she shivered--"and then we
would take a little steamer, and go and look for them?"

"I know. She's getting ready."

"That is right. Then we will go on board at once," said Agatha, with
decision. She, who a week ago would have been terrified at the bare
thought of setting her foot on the deck of any vessel!

"Poor little delicate thing," muttered Duke, watching her. "It will be
a rough sea to-night, and we may be a day or two in getting round the
coast. You had better go home, Agatha."

She shook her head.

"Somebody once told me you had never been at sea in your life; and in
winter-time this Dorset coast is rough always, sometimes dangerous."

"Dangerous! and he is there!" She began tying on her bonnet, hastily,
but steadily, as steadily as if preparing for an every-day walk. "Now, I
am quite ready. Let us start."

Her brother made no more objections, but took her through the busy
Southampton streets. Once, on the quay, two lounging sailors touched
their hats to Mr. Dugdale, and Agatha heard a whisper of "Belongs to
some o' the poor fellows as went down in the _Ardente_." She shuddered,
as if there were already upon her the awful sign of widowhood.

--The wide Southampton harbour, with the crafts of all nations gliding
to and fro upon it--the bustle of the landing and embarking place--the
hurrying crowd, eager after their own business, none thinking of the
one little vessel suddenly whelmed in that wondrous sea-highway, ever
thronged, yet ever lonely, or of the wrecked crew drifting hither and
thither, no one knew where. The tale had been a day's talk, a day's
pity--then forgotten.

Agatha stood in the midst of all, but saw nothing. Nothing but the grey,
bleak, merciless sea, howling and dancing to her feet like a victorious
enemy, or sweeping off into the silence of the wintry horizon, there
grimly folding up its mystery, as if to say, "Of me thou shalt know
nothing." But Agatha felt as if, to win that secret, she was ready to
pierce into nethermost hell.

"Quick, let us go," she said, and almost bounded into the little vessel.
She stood on the deck, trembling with excitement, watched the paddles
crash into obedience the cruel w