"If you please, Mrs. More, I must beg you to excuse me. I am sent for to go home, for my father—Oh! my father!—is dying."
Miss Frowde was close behind Joyce.
"You must not agitate dear Mrs. More," she said. "I will take care of Miss Falconer," she added. "The gig is waiting."
"Do you know any particulars?"
Miss Frowde shook her head, and was leading Joyce away, when she suddenly turned back.
"Dear madam, dear Mrs. More, please pray for me;" and, unable to resist the impulse, she threw her arms round the old lady's neck.
"Miss Falconer, indeed you must restrain your emotion; you will agitate dear Mrs. More."
But Hannah More held the trembling form of the poor stricken child close.
"My dear," she whispered, "many are the sorrows through which I have passed, and He whom I trust has never forsaken me. Trust in Him, and to His loving kindness I commend you."
Joyce raised herself from the old lady's arms, and the Bishop, deeply moved, laid his hand upon her head.