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."

It was indeed a beautiful thing to see this fair and guiltless penitent
leaning against her indulgent father's bosom, in which her blushing
face was hid, and disclosing the history of an attachment as pure and
innocent as ever warmed the heart of youth and beauty. Oh no wonder,
thou sweetest and most artless of human beings, that when the heavy
blight of reason came upon thee, and thou disappearedst from his eyes,
that the old man's spirit became desolate and his heart broken, and
that he said after thy dissolution to every word of comfort uttered to
him--"It is vain, it is vain--I cannot stay. I hear her voice calling
me--she calls me, my beautiful--my pride--my child--my c