uses for his own conduct,
he confessed to her all the occurrences of the night before. Every moment
his agitation increased under her quiet, mournful look of reproach,
until, as he came to the close, he cried out in a sorrowful but defiant
tone, 'Oh, Miss Anne, I could not bear it!'

'Do you remember,' she asked, in a low and tender voice, 'how poor Snip
used to follow me down to this very spot, and sit here till I was out of
sight? I was very fond of poor old Snip, Stephen!' Yes, her voice
trembled, and tears were in her eyes. The proud bulwark which Stephen had
been raising against his grief was broken down in a moment. He sank down
on the turf at Miss Anne's feet; and, no longer checking the tears which
had been burning in his eyes all day, he wept and sobbed vehemently,
until his passion had worn away.

'And now,' said Miss Anne, sitting down beside him, 'I must tell you
that, though I am not surprised, I am very, very grieved, Stephen. If you
knew your Bible more, you would have read this verse in it, "God is
faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able;
but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be
able to bear it." Did no way of escape open to you, Stephen?'

Then Stephen remembered how he had heard dear little Nan calling
piteously to him as he passed Fern's Hollow with Black Thompson; and how
his heart yearned to go to her, though he had resisted and conquered this
saving impulse.

'You do not know much,' continued Miss Anne, 'but if you had followed out
all you do know, instead of poaching with Black Thompson that you might
revenge yourself for Snip being killed, you would have been praying for
them that persecute you. The Bible says that not a sparrow falls to the
ground without our Father. So God knew that poor Snip was shot.'

'But why did He not hinder it?' asked Stephen, speaking low and
indistinctly.

'Stephen,' said Miss Anne earnestly, 'suppose that I lived in a very
grand palace, where there were many things that you had never seen, and I
wanted little Nan to come and live with me, not as a servant, but as my
dear child; would it be unkind of me to send her first to a school, where
she could learn how to read the books, and understand the pictures, and
play the music she would find in my palace? Even if the lessons were
often hard, and some of her schoolfellows were cruel and unkind to her,
would it not be better for her to bear it for a little