“Agnes,” said her father, “how is she?—in what state?—in what frame of mind?”
“She appears much distressed, papa—feels conscious that Charles is gone—but as yet has made no allusion to their parting yesterday. Indeed I do not think she remembers it. She is already up, and begged this moment of me to leave her to herself for a little.”
“‘I want strength, Agnes,’ said she, ‘and I know there is but one source from which I can obtain it. Advice, consolation, and sympathy, I may and will receive here; but strength—strength is what I most stand in need of, and that only can proceed from Him who gives rest to the heavy laden.’
“‘You feel too deeply, Jane,’ I replied; ‘you should try to be firm.’
“‘I do try, Agnes; but tell me, have I not been unwell, very unwell?’
“‘Your feelings, dear Jane, overcame you yesterday, as was natural they should—but now that you are calm, of course you will not yield to despondency or melancholy. Your dejection, though at present deep, will soon pass away, and ere many days you will be as cheerful as ever.’
“‘I hope so; but Charles is gone, is he not?’
“‘But you know it was necessary that he should travel for his health; besides, have you not formed a plan of correspondence with each other?’
“Then,” proceeded Agnes, “she pulled out the locket which contained his hair, and after looking on it for about a minute, she kissed it, pressed it to her heart, and whilst in the act of doing so a few tears ran down her cheeks.
“I am glad of that,” observed her mother; “it is a sign that this heavy grief will not long-abide upon her.”