“Nay, no buts; I must have this house. Besides, Miss Valery says it is the only house to let in Kingcombe.”
“Except the one I showed you as we passed.”
“Oh, that mean little cottage—impossible. We could never think of living there.”
“Nevertheless, let us look at it. You know we are but just beginning the world, and 'small beginnings make great endings' as Uncle Brian would sagely observe. Come along, my little wife.”
She tried to slip from his hand and appeal to Miss Valery, but Anne had moved forward, and left them alone. There was no resource; and even while Agatha's spirit was rather restive under the coercion, she could not but acknowledge the pleasantness with which it was enforced.
“Well, I'll go with you, but I hereby declare rebellion. I will not have that miserable nutshell of a house,” said she, laughing.
Yet it was a pretty nutshell—quite after the “love in a cottage” fashion—though adorned and perfected by the late Mr. Wilson, an old bachelor.
“Did he die here?” asked Agatha.
“No; in Cornwall,” Anne answered. “He had gone over to look at some property I have lately bought there. The people on it, miners thrown out of work, gave him more anxiety than he could bear, for he was not strong. He said their misery broke his heart.”
Miss Valery spoke softly, but the words caught Nathanael's ear. He looked greatly shocked—and said, in a low tone, “Anne, don't talk of this. If I live, the wrong shall be atoned for.”