“No matter, it will not reach them. The Ardente will be safe in Southampton-water by this time.”
Agatha recurred to the perpetual letter; “Yes, so my husband tells me here.”
“And therefore,” Miss Valery continued, laying her hand over the paper, “his good little wife shall fold up this, and not weary herself any more with anxiety about him. Those who love ought above all others to trust in the love of God.”
After this they sat patient and content—nay, oftentimes quite merry, for Agatha strove hard to amuse her companion. And the wind sang its song without—not threateningly, but rather in mirth; and the fire burnt brightly, within. And no one thought of them but as friends and servants—the terrible Wind, the devouring Fire.
It was growing late, and Agatha began to use the petty tyranny with which Miss Valery had invested her, insisting on her friend's going to bed.
“I will presently; only give me time—a little time. I am not so young as you, my child, and have not so many hours to waste in sleeping. There now, I'll be good. Wait—you see I am already pulling down my hair.”
She did so, rather feebly. It fell on her shoulders longer and thicker than any one would have believed—it was really beautiful, except for those broad white streaks.
“What soft fine hair,” cried Agatha, admiringly. “Ah, you shall go without caps in the spring—I declare you shall.”
“Not at my age.”
“That cannot be so very ancient. I shouldn't mind asking you the direct question, for I am sure you are not one of those foolish women who are ashamed to tell their age, as if any number of years matters while we keep a young warm heart.”