“What is this, children—­what is this whispering all about?  Perhaps some of you can explain the conduct of that poor child.”

“But, papa,” said Agnes, “you are not to know all our secrets.”

“Am I not, indeed, Aggy?  That’s pretty evident from the cautious tone in which you and Mary speak.”

“Well, but Agnes is right, Henry,” said her mother:  “to know the daughters’ secrets is my privilege—­and yours to know William’s—­if he has any.”

“Upon my word, mother, mine are easily carried, I assure you.”

“Suppose, papa,” observed Agnes, good-humoredly, “that I was to fall in love, now—­as is not——­

“Improbable that you may—­you baggage,” replied her father, smiling, whilst he completed the sentence; “Well, and you would not tell me if you did?”

“No indeed, sir; I should not.  Perhaps I ought,—­but I could not, certainly, bring myself to do it.  For instance, would it be either modest or delicate in me, to go and say to your face, ’Papa, I’m in love.’  In that case the next step, I suppose, would be to make you the messenger between us.  Now would you not expect as much, papa, if I told you?” said the arch and lively girl.

“Aggy, you are a presuming gipsy,” replied the old man, joining in the laugh which she had caused.  “Me your messenger!”

“Yes, and a steady one you would make, sir—­I am sure you would not, at all events, overstep your instructions.”

“That will be one quality essentially necessary to any messenger of yours, Agnes,” replied her father, in the same spirit.

“Papa,” said she, suddenly changing her manner, and laying aside her gayety, “what I said in jest of myself may be seriously true of another in this family.  Suppose Jane——­”

“Jane!” exclaimed the old man;—­“impossible!  She is but a girl!—­but a child!” “Agnes, this is foolish of you,” said her sister.  “It is possible, after all, that you are doing poor Jane injustice.  Papa, Agnes only speaks from suspicion.  We are not certain of anything.  It was I mentioned it first, but merely from suspicion.”

“If Jane’s affections are engaged,” said her father, “I tremble to think of the consequences should she experience the slightest disappointment.  But it cannot be, Maria,—­the girl has too much sense, and her principles are too well established.”

“What is it you mean, girls?” inquired their mother, in a tone of surprise and alarm.

“Indeed, Agnes,” said Maria, reprovingly, “it is neither fair nor friendly to poor Jane, to bring out a story founded only on a mere surmise.  Agnes insists, mamma, that Jane is attached to Charles Osborne.”

“It certainly occurred to us only a few moments ago, I allow,” replied Agnes; “but if I am mistaken in this, I will give up my judgment in everything else.  And I mentioned it solely to prevent our own distress, particularly papa’s, with respect to the change that is of late so visible in her conduct and manner.”