“We shall see,” said his father, who evidently spoke in deep distress of mind, “we shall consider in the course of the evening what ought to be done.”

“Better to take her gently,” observed her mother, wiping away a tear, “gentleness and love will make her tell anything—­and that there is something on her mind no one can doubt.”

“I won’t have her distressed, my dear,” replied her father.  “It cannot be of much importance I think after all—­but whatever it may be, her own candid mind will give it forth spontaneously.  I know my child, and will answer for her.”

“Why then, papa, are you so much distressed, if you think it of no importance?” asked Maria.

“If her finger ached, it would distress me, child, and you know it.”

“Why, she and Osborne have had no opportunity of being together, out of the eyes of the family,” observed William.

“That’s more than you know, William,” said Agnes; “she has often walked out.”

“But she always did so,” replied her mother.

“She would never meet him privately,” said her father firmly, “of that I am certain as my life.”

“That, papa,” returned Agnes, “I am afraid, is precisely what she has done, and what now distresses her.  And I am sure that whatever is wrong with her, no explanation will be had from herself.  Though kind and affectionate as ever, she has been very shy with me and Maria of late—­and indeed, has made it a point to keep aloof from us!  Three or four times I spoke to her in a tone of confidence, as if I was about to introduce some secret of my own, but she always under some pretense or other left me.  I had not thought of Osborne at the time, nor could I guess what troubled her—­but something I saw did.”  Her father sighed deeply, and, clasping his hands, uttered a silent ejaculation to heaven on her behalf.  “That is true,” said he, “it is now the hour of evening worship; let us kneel and remember her trouble, the poor child, whatever it may be.”  “Had I not better call her down, papa,” said Agnes.

“Not this evening,” he replied, “not this evening—­she is too much disturbed, and will probably prefer praying alone.”

The old man then knelt down, and after the usual form of evening worship, uttered a solemn and affecting appeal upon her behalf, to Him, who can pour balm upon the wounded spirit, and say unto the weary and heavy laden, “Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.”  But when he went on in words more particularly describing her state of mind, to mention, and plead for “their youngest,” and “their dearest,” and “their best beloved,” his voice became tremulous, and for a moment he paused, but the pause was filled with the sobbings of those who loved her, and especially by the voice of that affectionate sister who loved her most—­for of them all, Agnes only wept aloud.  At length the prayer was concluded, and rising up with wet eyes, they perceived that the beloved object of their supplications had glided into the room, and joined their worship unperceived.