It was such great joy to see her father regaining his old interest in life, and to see her mother so beaming of countenance and light of heart that it seemed to Agnes as if it would be ungrateful in her to consider that she had any trouble. Time did not dim the image of Parker, and there were days when the girl would go out into the deep woods, and, throwing herself prone on the ground, would weep her heart out. This was generally after news from home came to Carter, such news as he was quick to retail to the Kennedys, at whose house he was a daily visitor. Every one liked Carter, and his sunny presence was cheering to Agnes. She dreaded, yet longed to know of those letters from Virginia; they always brought news of Parker, and generally it was told that every one wondered if he would marry Alicia Southall. She had a string of beaux, Carter’s sister wrote, and no one could tell whom she favored, though it was a well-known fact that she had taken pains to lure Parker into rejoining her train. Agnes remembered the pencil-sketch, and wondered if Parker regretted its destruction. She inwardly exulted that he did not possess it. “She cannot rob me of those precious hours,” sighed the girl, “even though I am a maiden lorn the rest of my life.” These thoughts were uppermost as she took her way one spring day to the river’s brink to go over to Polly. She had never returned to the place now known as O’Neill’s clearing, and Polly chid her for her neglect. “You must go,” her mother said; “it is not treating Polly kindly. Come, dear, it will do you good; the winter is over and there is no longer any excuse. You are looking a little doucy.” She drew her close and kissed her. “Is it still the old hurt, dear heart?” Agnes gave a sigh. “I try, but I cannot forget, and the crumbs of comfort that a little message sometimes brings me has been denied of late, for it is a long time since Carter has heard from his cousin, and it will soon be a year, a year in June since he went away.” “Wait patiently on the Lord and he will give thee thy heart’s desire,” said her mother. “My heart’s desire. Oh, mother, if I could believe that!” “If it is well for you to have it, and if you have faith, it will be yours.” “Ah, mother dear, I wish I had your faith and trust.” “See what God has wrought for us in your father’s case. Ah, daughter, when I think of that, I am uplifted on the very heights of faith. Go on, dear lamb, and do not be cast down. Give my love to Polly.”