'You've been grieving, Agnes. What have you been grieving for—for your convent; tell me, dear? I can't bear to see you unhappy.'
'No, father; don't think of me.'
'Not think of you, Agnes! Of whom should I think, then? Tell me all, everything. If you're not happy here you shall go back. I won't see you unhappy. It is my fault; only I thought that you had better come home and see the world first. I had thought that we might have altered things here, just for your sake.'
'But you, father, you're not happy here; you would be still more unhappy if I went back to the convent. That is true, isn't it?'
'Yes, that is true, dear; but you must not think about me. There's no use thinking about me; I'm not worth thinking about.'
'Don't say that, father, you mustn't speak like that;' and unable to control her feelings any longer, Agnes threw herself into her father's arms. And she did not speak until she perceived that her father was weeping with her.
'What are you weeping for, father?'
'For you, dear, because you're not happy.'
'There are other reasons,' she said, looking inquiringly and tenderly.
'No, dear, there's nothing else now in the world for me to grieve for.
You must go back to the convent if you're not happy.'