“If you like. Anywhere to be with you. I am sick of myself.”
“We all are at times, especially when we are young, and do not quite understand ourselves or others. The feeling passes away. But as to Weymouth—do you still dislike to go near the sea?”
“Yes—no! I will try to bear it; I think I could, by your side. And you shall not go alone on any account.”
“Thank you,” said Anne, taking her hand. So they went.
An innocent line of railway darted past Kingcombe, in the vain hope of waking that somnolent town. It was a pleasant whirl across the usual breezy flats of moorland, by some meadows where a network of serpentine streams flashed in the sun. Agatha felt more like her own self; with her, the spirit of Nature was always an exorciser of internal demons; and Anne's conversation aided the beneficent work.
At Dorchester they took a carriage, and drove across the country to Weymouth.
“Are you not getting weary? you looked so but lately,” said Agatha to Miss Valery.
“Not at all, I feel strong now.” Her eyes and cheeks were indeed very bright; she leaned forward and gazed eagerly around.
“This Weymouth seems familiar to you, Miss Valery?”
“Yes; we used to come here every summer—Mr. and Mrs. Harper and the children and I, until she died. She was as good as a mother, or an elder sister”—here Anne hesitated, but repeated the words—“like an elder sister—to me. We were all very happy in those times. It is a great blessing, Agatha, to have had a happy childhood. Where did you spend yours?”