It was now that Henry, who, to prevent scandal, had stolen at that still hour of night to rid the curate of the incumbrance so irksome to him, and take the foundling to a woman whom he had hired for the charge—it was now that Henry came up, with the child of Agnes in his arms, carefully covered all over from the night’s dew.
“Agnes, is it you?” cried Henry, at a little distance. “Where are you going thus late?”
“Home, sir,” said she, and rushed among the trees.
“Stop, Agnes,” he cried; “I want to bid you farewell; to-morrow I am going to leave this part of the country for a long time; so God bless you, Agnes.”
Saying this, he stretched out his arm to shake her by the hand.
Her poor heart, trusting that his blessing, for want of more potent offerings, might, perhaps, at this tremendous crisis ascend to Heaven in her behalf, she stopped, returned, and put out her hand to take his.
“Softly!” said he; “don’t wake my child; this spot has been a place of danger to him, for underneath this very ivy-bush it was that I found him.”
“Found what?” cried Agnes, with a voice elevated to a tremulous scream.
“I will not tell you the story,” replied Henry; “for no one I have ever yet told of it would believe me.”
“I will believe you—I will believe you,” she repeated with tones yet more impressive.