Agatha understood that “but” Nothing but strong conviction would have forced it from her brother-in-law's lips. Her last hope died.
An hour or two more they spent in gliding up the narrow channel of that salt-water swamp, which at high tide appeared so glittering from the Thornhurst road. When approached, it was a muddy chaos, desolate as an uninhabited world.
They went as far up-stream as the little steamer could run, and then landed on the bank which abutted on some rushy meadows. It was a dark winter's night—there was not a soul abroad, though some faint light showed they were near the town. The bells of Kingcombe Church were ringing merrily through the mist.
“I had quite forgotten,” muttered Duke to himself. “This must be Christmas-eve.”
What a Christmas-eve!
He half led, half lifted Agatha through the wet fields and along the road.
“You will go to my house, and let the Missus and me take care of you, my child?”
“No, no; I will go home!”
So, without any further argument, he took her to her own gate. There it was, the familiar gate, with its shiny evergreens glittering in the lamp-light; beyond it, the dusky line of Kingcombe Street.. The cottage within was all dark, except for the faintest ray creeping under the hall-door. Marmaduke opened it, and called Dorcas. She came, and when she saw them, rushed forward sobbing.
“Oh, missus, missus—is it my missus?”