“Oh, mother, mother, you don’t know. There was a misunderstanding, and it was my fault, and now I can never set him right. Oh, no, I see that I never can. Oh, mother, mother, if I had but been at home, all might have been so different. Oh, why did I go?”
Her mother put her arms about her, and led her farther under the shadow of the trees. “Dear bairn, I wish I could bear this for you, but I think he loves you, and it may all be for the best; one never knows what the trials are sent for. Do not greet so, my lamb. I know that when troubles come to us when we are young they seem black indeed, and the day of peace and comfort a long way off; but don’t despair, my dear, remember who is a ‘very present help in trouble.’”
Agnes sighed, and her choking sobs ceased. “Tell me all he said, mother. It came so suddenly I was not prepared; I ought to be more brave. I am not always so cowardly when troubles come.”
“No, dear, you have been the bravest of the brave. There is not very much to tell. He was not here very long, for he was anxious to be on the way as soon as possible, and I think he hoped to be able to meet you. He wishes to reach home as soon as he can. There was a letter from his sister, he said. He thanked us all for our kindness.”
“And it is he who has been kind.”
“So I told him. He asked for the little box of miniatures. I found it and gave it to him, but he left some books, quite a number which he said he had promised to lend you.”
Agnes was quite calm now. “Mother,” she said, “I will trust and wait. You are right, we should not give way to fears. I am glad of the books; they will be a great comfort. Mother, you know—you know how I feel. I am not ashamed that I do care so much, and you said—oh, mother, you said you thought he was not indifferent to me, so I will trust and wait, but oh, mother, comfort me.”
“My bairn, my lamb!” The mother’s arms were again about her. “What more can I say? Be patient and endure and all will be well. It may be only a short time before he is here again, and you may be all the happier because of this parting.”
Agnes lifted her head from her mother’s shoulder. “Ah, yes, mother, that is comforting. I remember, too, that sometimes out of a sorrow comes joy, and I have you, mother dear, and that is so much.”
But the days that followed were very weary ones; the world seemed to have lost its beauty. The thought of that empty little cabin in the wilderness would bring a pang to the girl’s heart, and each evening she would climb the hill at the sunset hour to live over the happy moments with which the spot was associated. The small store of books she carried to her room to be pored over, touched lingeringly, and treasured—for had not his hands held them? Had not his eyes dwelt on every page? Had he not followed the thought therein expressed? There was nothing that could have expressed so much or have brought such enduring association as these, and in time Agnes became so familiar with them that she could have repeated pages of Shakespeare’s plays, Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” Addison’s essays, or Spenser’s “Faerie Queene.” And when Archie came she quite astonished and pleased him by her learning.