"Does it look likely, Agnes?" said Lady Anne with a quiet smile,—scarcely a sad one this time.
The tears came to Agnes's eyes. She could not say that it did.
"No," resumed Lady Anne, after a short pause, and in a low voice, "I never loved any thing yet that did not either die or go away from me."
"Except Jesus Christ," said Agnes softly. She knew that she was safe in saying it—that however the black clouds might hide the Sun of Righteousness, He had risen, with healing in His wings, upon the young lonely heart beside her.
"Except Jesus Christ," echoed the girl reverently. "And yet—O Agnes, does He not know how hard it is to see nothing? to have nothing at all that one can feel and touch, and clasp close to the heart? He had friends in this life—even He, the Man of Sorrows, was not quite without them."
"Yet they all forsook Him, and fled."
"Aye. That was worse. But they came back again."
There were tears behind the voice.
"Dear my Lady, what causeth you be thus sorrowful this even?"
She broke down when that was asked. Pushing away the book, she bent her head down on her clasped hands on the table, and sobbed as though her heart would break.