Mr. Harper seemed restless. “The speculation had failed, having been ill-managed, or, as I greatly fear, a cheat from the beginning. As I had property near in the county—what, did you not know that, Nathanael—I was asked to do something for the poor starving miners of Wheal Caroline. Have you heard the name, Agatha?”
“No,” said Agatha, innocently, not paying much attention, except to the lovely view.
“Not heard? That is strange. But you, Nathanael”—
“I know all,” he said hastily. “It is a sad history—too sad to be talked of here. Another time”—
His eye met hers—and both turned upon Agatha, who sat a little apart, enjoying the novel scene, and rejoicing above all that the sea—vague object of nameless terror—could ever appear so beautiful.
“Poor child!” murmured Miss Valery.
“Hush, Anne!” Nathanael whispered, so imploringly—nay, commandingly, that Anne was startled.
“How like you are to”—
“What were you saying?” asked Agatha, turning at last.
“I was saying,” Miss Valery replied hastily—“I was saying how like Nathanael looked just then to his Uncle Brian.”