“That’s more than you know, William,” said Agnes; “she has often walked out.”
“But she always did so,” replied her mother.
“She would never meet him privately,” said her father firmly, “of that I am certain as my life.”
“That, papa,” returned Agnes, “I am afraid, is precisely what she has done, and what now distresses her. And I am sure that whatever is wrong with her, no explanation will be had from herself. Though kind and affectionate as ever, she has been very shy with me and Maria of late—and indeed, has made it a point to keep aloof from us! Three or four times I spoke to her in a tone of confidence, as if I was about to introduce some secret of my own, but she always under some pretense or other left me. I had not thought of Osborne at the time, nor could I guess what troubled her—but something I saw did.” Her father sighed deeply, and, clasping his hands, uttered a silent ejaculation to heaven on her behalf. “That is true,” said he, “it is now the hour of evening worship; let us kneel and remember her trouble, the poor child, whatever it may be.” “Had I not better call her down, papa,” said Agnes.
“Not this evening,” he replied, “not this evening—she is too much disturbed, and will probably prefer praying alone.”
The old man then knelt down, and after the usual form of evening worship, uttered a solemn and affecting appeal upon her behalf, to Him, who can pour balm upon the wounded spirit, and say unto the weary and heavy laden, “Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.” But when he went on in words more particularly describing her state of mind, to mention, and plead for “their youngest,” and “their dearest,” and “their best beloved,” his voice became tremulous, and for a moment he paused, but the pause was filled with the sobbings of those who loved her, and especially by the voice of that affectionate sister who loved her most—for of them all, Agnes only wept aloud. At length the prayer was concluded, and rising up with wet eyes, they perceived that the beloved object of their supplications had glided into the room, and joined their worship unperceived.
“Dear Jane,” said her father, “we did not know you were with us.”
She made no immediate reply, but, after a moment’s apparent struggle, went over, and laying her head upon his bosom, sobbed out—“Papa, your love has overcome me. I will tell you all.”
“Soul of truth and candor,” exclaimed the old man, clasping her to his bosom, “heroic child! I knew she would do it, and I said so. Go out now, and leave us to ourselves. Darling, don’t be distressed. If you feel difficulty I will not ask to hear it. Or perhaps you would rather mention it to your mamma.”
“No—to you papa—to you—and you will not be harsh upon me, I am a weak girl, and have done very wrong.”