Prof. D. I am afraid I do. The niece of a friend of mine was there, and left it, much distressed and confused by the agnostic opinions that were freely broached there. How did your grand-daughter come to choose it?
Mr. A. For the sake of being with a friend. I think Thurston is the name.
Prof. D. I know something of that family; clever people, but bred up—on principle, if it can be so called, with their minds a blank as to religion. I remember seeing one of the daughters at the party where I met Miss Moldwarp.
Mr. A. So this is the society into which we have allowed our poor child to run! I blame myself exceedingly for not having made more inquiries. Grief made me selfishly passive, or I should have opened my eyes and theirs to the danger. My poor Mary, what a shock it will be to her!
Prof. D. Was not she on the spot?
Mr. A. True; but, poor dear, she is of a gentle nature, easily led, and seeing only what her affection lets her perceive. And now, she is not strong.
Prof. D. She is not looking well.
Mr. A. You think so! I wonder whether I have been blind, and let her undertake too much.
Prof. D. Suppose you were to bring her to town for a few days. We should be delighted to have you, and she could see the doctor to whom she is accustomed. Then you can judge for yourself about her daughter.
Mr. A. Thank you, Dunlop! It will be a great comfort if it can be managed.