“Don't talk of that, don't,” murmured she, turning pale.
“I will not, dear. But was it not strange that we should have drifted ashore at Weymouth?”
“Very strange.”
“Have you sent over the way this morning, to see after Uncle Brian?”
“Not yet; but Harrie will take care of him. He is not near so much hurt as you, and I must look after my own husband first.” And once again wistfully gazing at him, she threw her arms round his neck, murmuring, “My own—my own!”
The church-bells ceased, the breakfast was removed, and the husband and wife sat together.
“Somebody,” said Nathanael, suddenly—“somebody ought to go and see Anne Valery this Christmas-day.
“Does she know?”
“She knew last night. Marmaduke said he should ride over and tell her.”
“What news for her to hear—dear, dear Anne!”