“It is quite like a scene in a play,” said Agatha, laughing and trying to make Miss Valery laugh. She could not see her clearly in the moonlight, but she did not like her sitting so quiet and silent.
“Yes, very like a play, with 'Herz, mein Herz,' for a serenade. What a sweet old tune it is!”
“I used to sing it once.” And Agatha began following the instruments with her voice. “No, I can't sing. I could sooner cry.”
“Why? Are you sorrowful?”
“No—happy. Yet all feels strange, very strange.” She crept to Miss Valery, wrapped her arms round her waist, and laid her head timidly on her shoulder. Anne drew her nearer, with a more caressing manner than she ever used to any one. Agatha Harper seemed that night of all nights to lie very near her heart.
“Herz, mein Herz,” died faintly away down the esplanade; there was nothing but the glitter of the bay, and the moon climbing higher and higher above the Isle of Portland.
Anne spoke at last, amidst the half-playful, half-tender caresses that were so dear to Agatha, who had never known what it was to be calmly and safely in a mother's arms. Lying thus seemed most like it.
“Do you think I care for you, Agatha, my child?”
“I cannot tell. Perhaps not, for I am not good enough to deserve it.”
“Do you know what first made me care for you?”