A heavy sigh burst from the bosom of Capitola.
"What is the matter, my dear child?" he said, kindly.
"Oh, sir, if I had only known you before!" exclaimed Capitola, bitterly.
"Why, my dear? I can do just as much good now."
"Oh, no, sir; it is too late; it is too late!"
"It is never to late to do well."
"Oh, yes, sir; it is for me! Oh, how I wish I had had your good counsel before; it would have saved me from so much trouble."
"My dear child, you make me seriously uneasy; do explain yourself," said the old pastor, drawing his chair closer to hers and trying to get a look at the distressed little face that was bowed down upon her hands and veiled with her hair; "do tell me, my dear, what is the matter."
"Oh, sir, I am afraid to tell you; you'd hate and despise me; you'd never speak to me again," said Capitola, keeping her face concealed.
"My dear child," said the minister, very gravely and sorrowfully, "whatever your offense has been, and you make me fear that it has been a very serious one, I invite you to confide it to me, and, having done so, I promise, however I may mourn the sin, not to 'hate,' or 'despise,' or forsake the sinner. Come, confide in me."