commanding a lovely view of wide, sunny landscape; a Bible which her
mother had given her, lay open on her knees; she was reading in it as
her father entered. For the first time in his life, he paused,
speechless, as he approached to speak to one of his own children.

"I am afraid I look very ill," she said, holding out her hand to him;
"but I am better than I look; I shall be quite well in a day or two.
Have you heard my message, father? have you been told?"--

"My love, we will not speak of it yet; we will wait a few days," said
Mr. Langley.

"You have always been so kind to me," she continued, in less steady
tones, "that I am sure you will let me go on. I have very little to say,
but that little must be said now, and then we need never recur to it
again. Will you consider all that has happened, as something forgotten?
You have heard already what it is that I entreat you to do; will you let
_him_--Mr. Streatfield--" (She stopped, her voice failed for a moment,
but she recovered herself again almost immediately.) "Will you let Mr.
Streatfield remain here, or recall him if he is gone, and give him an
opportunity of explaining himself to my sister? If poor Clara should
refuse to see him for my sake, pray do not listen to her. I am sure this
is what ought to be done; I have been thinking of it very calmly, and I
feel that it is right. And there is something more I have to beg of you,
father; it is, that, while Mr. Streatfield is here, you will allow me
to go and stay with my aunt.--You know how fond she is of me. Her house
is not a day's journey from home. It is best for every body (much the
best for _me_) that I should not remain here at present; and--and--dear
father! I have always been your spoiled child; and I know you will
indulge me still. If you will do what I ask you, I shall soon get over
this heavy trial. I shall be well again if I am away at my aunt's--if--"

She paused; and putting one trembling arm round her father's neck, hid
her face on his breast. For some minutes, Mr. Langley could not trust
himself to answer her. There was something, not deeply touching only,
but impressive and sublime, about the moral heroism of this young girl,
whose heart and mind--hitherto wholly inexperienced in the harder and
darker emergencies of life--now rose in the strength of their native
purity superior to the bitterest, cruellest trial that either could
undergo; whose patience and resignation, called forth for the first t