“Yes, I feel as if I could turn there now I have told you, papa,” said Beatrice; “but when I could not get at you, everything seemed dried up in me.  Not one prayer or confession would come;—­but now, O! now you know it, and—­and—­I feel as if He would not turn away His face.  Do you know I did try the 51st Psalm, but it would not do, not even ‘deliver me from blood-guiltiness,’ it would only make me shudder!  O, papa, it was dreadful!”

Her father’s answer was to draw her down on her knees by his side, and read a few verses of that very Psalm, and a few clauses of the prayer for persons troubled in mind, and he ended with the Lord’s Prayer.  Beatrice, when it was over, leant her head against him, and did not speak, nor weep, but she seemed refreshed and relieved.  He watched her anxiously and affectionately, doubting whether it was right to bestow so much time on her exclusively, yet unwilling to leave her.  When she again spoke, it was in a lower, more subdued, and softer voice, “Aunt Mary will forgive me, I know; you will tell her, papa, and then it will not be quite so bad!  Now I can pray that he may be saved—­O, papa—­ disobedient, and I the cause; how could I ever bear the thought?”

“You can only pray,” replied her father.

“Now that I can once more,” said Beatrice; and again there was a silence, while she stood thinking deeply, but contrary to her usual habit, not speaking, and he knowing well her tendency to lose her repentant feelings by expressing them, was not willing to interrupt her.  So they remained for nearly ten minutes, until at last he thought it time to leave her, and made some movement as if to do so.  Then she spoke, “Only tell me one thing, papa.  Do you think Aunt Mary has any hope?  There was something—­something death-like in her face.  Does she hope?”

Mr. Geoffrey Langford shook his head.  “Not yet,” said he.  “I think it may be better after this first night is over.  She is evidently reckoning the hours, and I think she has a kind of morbid expectation that it will be as it was with his father, who lived twelve hours after his accident.”

“But surely, surely,” said Beatrice eagerly, “this is a very different case; Fred has spoken so much more than my uncle did; and Philip says he is convinced that there is no fracture—­”

“It is a morbid feeling,” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, “and therefore impossible to be reasoned away.  I see she dreads to be told to hope, and I shall not even attempt it till these fatal twelve hours are over.”

“Poor dear aunt!” sighed Beatrice.  “I am glad, if it was to be, that you were here, for nobody else would understand her.”

“Understand her!” said he, with something of a smile.  “No, Bee, such sorrow as hers has a sacredness in it which is not what can be understood.”

Beatrice sighed, and then with a look as if she saw a ray of comfort, said, “I suppose mamma will soon be here?”