“Will you go back, dear, and ask Brian to come to me? I would like to talk a little, alone, with my old friend.”
Agatha obeyed. When she had delivered her message, Mr. Locke Harper rose without speaking. She saw him go into the drawing-room and close the door; then she came back to her husband.
For more than two hours Agatha and Nathanael sat, not liking to go in without being summoned. At last they ventured to pass the door. The silence within was so death-like that it half frightened them.
“I wish she would call,” Agatha whispered. “She looked so strangely white when she spoke to me. Hush! is not that some one stirring? I must knock.”
She did so, but there was no answer. At last, trembling all over, she caught hold of her husband's hand and made him enter.
The room was quite still—dimly-lighted—for the fire had been suffered to burn itself almost out. Anne sat in her arm-chair, with Brian kneeling beside her, his arms clasping her waist, and hers linked behind his neck. Neither moved, or seemed to notice anything; and the two young people, greatly moved by the scene, were gliding away, when a last glimmer of the fire showed them Anne Valery's face. They saw it—grasped one another's hands with an awe-struck meaning—and stayed.
In a minute or two Anne faintly spoke.
“I think there is some one near? Is it Agatha?”
The young girl flung herself on Anne's hand.—“It is I—and my husband. May we stay? We, too, loved you, dear, dear Anne?”
“I know that! One minute, just one minute, Brian.”