lection proved too weak for the task it had undertaken. After a
moment's effort, she smiled sweetly in her father's face, and said--

"You would not have me break my appointment, nor give poor Charles pain,
and his health, moreover, so delicate. You know he would die rather than
give me a moment's anxiety. Die!--see that again--I know not what puts
death into my head so often."

"Henry," said her mother, "it is probably better to let her have her own
way for the present--at least until Dr. M'Cormick arrives. You and Agnes
can accompany her, perhaps she may be the better for it."

"I cannot refuse her," said the old man; "at all events, I agree with
you; there can, I think, be no possible harm in allowing her to go.
Come, Agnes, we must, alas! take care of her."

She then went out, they walking a few paces behind her, and proceeded
down the valley which we have already described in the opening of this
story, until she came to the spot at the river, where she first met
Osborne. Here she involuntarily stood a moment, and putting her hand
to her right shoulder, seemed to miss some object, that was obviously
restored to her recollection by an association connected with the place.
She shook her head, and sighed several times, and then exclaimed--

"Ungrateful bird, does it neglect me too?"

Her father pressed Agnes's arm with a sensation of joy, but spoke not
lest his voice might disturb her, or break the apparent continuity of
her reviving memory. She seemed to think, however, that she delayed here
too long, for without taking further notice of anything she hurried on
to the spot where the first disclosure of their loves had taken place.
On reaching it she looked anxiously and earnestly around the copse or
dell in which the yew tree, with its turf seat stood.

[Illustration: PAGE 52-- How is this?--how is this?--he is not here!]

"How is this?--how is this?"--she murmured to herself, "he is not here!"

Both her father and Agnes observed that during the whole course of
the unhappy but faithful girl's love, they never had witnessed such
a concentrated expression of utter woe and sorrow as now impressed
themselves upon her features.

"He has not come," said she; "but I can wait--I can wait--it will teach
my heart to be patient."

She then clasped her hands, and sitting down under the shade of the yew
tree, mused and murmured to herself alternately, but in such an evident
spirit of desolation and despair, as made her