very thing you warned me against--I mean--I mean--the being set in my
own way, and liking to tease the boys. O if I could but speak to tell
you all, but it seems like a weight here choking me," and she touched
her throat. "I can't get it out in words! O!" Poor Beatrice even groaned
aloud with oppression.

"Do not try to express it," said her father: "at least, it is not I who
can give you the best comfort. Here"--and he took up a Prayer Book.

"Yes, I feel as if I could turn there now I have told you, papa," said
Beatrice; "but when I could not get at you, everything seemed dried up
in me. Not one prayer or confession would come;--but now, O! now you
know it, and--and--I feel as if He would not turn away His face. Do you
know I did try the 51st Psalm, but it would not do, not even 'deliver me
from blood-guiltiness,' it would only make me shudder! O, papa, it was
dreadful!"

Her father's answer was to draw her down on her knees by his side, and
read a few verses of that very Psalm, and a few clauses of the prayer
for persons troubled in mind, and he ended with the Lord's Prayer.
Beatrice, when it was over, leant her head against him, and did not
speak, nor weep, but she seemed refreshed and relieved. He watched her
anxiously and affectionately, doubting whether it was right to bestow so
much time on her exclusively, yet unwilling to leave her. When she again
spoke, it was in a lower, more subdued, and softer voice, "Aunt Mary
will forgive me, I know; you will tell her, papa, and then it will
not be quite so bad! Now I can pray that he may be saved--O,
papa--disobedient, and I the cause; how could I ever bear the thought?"

"You can only pray," replied her father.

"Now that I can once more," said Beatrice; and again there was a
silence, while she stood thinking deeply, but contrary to her usual
habit, not speaking, and he knowing well her tendency to lose her
repentant feelings by expressing them, was not willing to interrupt her.
So they remained for nearly ten minutes, until at last he thought it
time to leave her, and made some movement as if to do so. Then she
spoke, "Only tell me one thing, papa. Do you think Aunt Mary has any
hope? There was something--something death-like in her face. Does she
hope?"

Mr. Geoffrey Langford shook his head. "Not yet," said he. "I think it
may be better after this first night is over. She is evidently reckoning
the hours, and I think she has a kind of morbid expectation that