ment of anguish, there was power in the good
and soothing influence so peculiar to Marmaduke Dugdale. Agatha grew
calmer--at least more passive. Soon, she saw that the little steamer's
head was turned to the shore. A convulsion passed over her, but she did
not rebel.

"There is a faint hope even yet," said Duke, with a melancholy voice
that almost gave the lie to his words. "They may have drifted safe
ashore somewhere--though it would be almost a miracle. Or they may have
been carried far out to sea, and been picked up by some outward-bound
ship. It's just a chance--but"--

Agatha understood that "but" Nothing but strong conviction would have
forced it from her brother-in-law's lips. Her last hope died.

An hour or two more they spent in gliding up the narrow channel of that
salt-water swamp, which at high tide appeared so glittering from the
Thornhurst road. When approached, it was a muddy chaos, desolate as an
uninhabited world.

They went as far up-stream as the little steamer could run, and then
landed on the bank which abutted on some rushy meadows. It was a dark
winter's night--there was not a soul abroad, though some faint light
showed they were near the town. The bells of Kingcombe Church were
ringing merrily through the mist.

"I had quite forgotten," muttered Duke to himself. "This must be
Christmas-eve."

What a Christmas-eve!

He half led, half lifted Agatha through the wet fields and along the
road.

"You will go to my house, and let the Missus and me take care of you, my
child?"

"No, no; I will go home!"

So, without any further argument, he took her to her own gate. There
it was, the familiar gate, with its shiny evergreens glittering in the
lamp-light; beyond it, the dusky line of Kingcombe Street.. The cottage
within was all dark, except for the faintest ray creeping under the
hall-door. Marmaduke opened it, and called Dorcas. She came, and when
she saw them, rushed forward sobbing.

"Oh, missus, missus--is it my missus?"

It was indeed the sorrowful mistress, who stood like a spectre in her
desolate home. But Dorcas dragged her in, and opened the parlour-door.

There was an odour of warmth--bright light, which so dazzled Agatha that
at first she saw nothing. Then she saw some one lying on the sofa.
And lo! there--half-buried in pillows, haggard and death-like, yet
alive--was a face she knew--a calm, sleeping face--falling round it the
long light hair.

CHAPTER XXX.

It was