The sorrowing mother caught her to her bosom, and, after kissing her passive lips, burst out into a sobbing fit of grief.

“Oh, my daughter, my daughter,” she exclaimed, still clasping her to her heart, “and is it come to this!  Oh, that we had never seen him!”

“This, my dear,” said Mr. Sinclair to his wife, “is wrong; indeed, it is weakness; you know she wants to compose her mind for prayer.”

“I do, papa; they must be more firm; I need to pray.  I know my frailties, you know them too, sir; I concealed them from you as long as I could, but their burden was too heavy for my heart; bless me now, before I go; I will kneel.”

The sweet girl knelt beside him, and he placed his hand upon her stooping head, and blessed her.  She then raised herself, and looking up to him with a singular expression of wild sweetness beaming in her eyes, she said, leaning her head again upon his breast,

“There are two bosoms, on which, I trust, I and my frailties can repose with hope; I know I shall soon pass from the one to the other—­

“The bosom of my father and my God, will not they be sweet, papa?”

She spoke thus with a smile of such unutterable sweetness, her beautiful eyes gazing innocently up into her father’s countenance, that the heart of the old man was shaken through every fibre.  He saw, however, what must be encountered, and was resolved to act a part worthy of the religion he professed.  He arose, and taking her hand in his, said, “You wish to pray, dearest love; that is right; your head has been upon my bosom, and I blessed you; go now, and, with a fervent heart, address yourself to the throne of grace; in doing this, my sweet child, piously and earnestly, you will pass from my bosom to the bosom of your God.  Cast yourself upon Him, my love; above all things, cast yourself with humble hope and earnest supplication upon His.  This, my child, indeed is sweet; and you will find it so; come, darling, come.”

He led her out of the room, and after a few words more of affectionate advice, left her to that solitude for which he hoped the frame of mind in which she then appeared was suitable.

“Her sense of religion,” he said, after returning to the family, “is not only delicate, but deep; her piety is fervent and profound.  I do not therefore despair but religion will carry her through whatever disappointment Charles’s flighty enthusiasm may occasion her.”

“I wish, papa,” said Agnes, “I could think so.  As she herself said, she might bear his death, for that would involve no act of treachery, of falsehood on his part; but to find that he is capable of forgetting their betrothed vows, sanctioned as they were by the parents of both—­indeed, papa, if such a thing happen——­”

“I should think it will not,” observed her mother; “Charles has, as you have just said, enthusiasm; now, will not that give an impulse to his love, as well as to his ambition?”