'Pretty well, father,' she answered, and she strove to check the tears which rose to her eyes. 'You've been grieving, Agnes. What have you been grieving for--for your convent; tell me, dear? I can't bear to see you unhappy.' 'No, father; don't think of me.' 'Not think of you, Agnes! Of whom should I think, then? Tell me all, everything. If you're not happy here you shall go back. I won't see you unhappy. It is my fault; only I thought that you had better come home and see the world first. I _had_ thought that we might have altered things here, just for your sake.' 'But you, father, you're not happy here; you would be still more unhappy if I went back to the convent. That is true, isn't it?' 'Yes, that is true, dear; but you must not think about me. There's no use thinking about me; I'm not worth thinking about.' 'Don't say that, father, you mustn't speak like that;' and unable to control her feelings any longer, Agnes threw herself into her father's arms. And she did not speak until she perceived that her father was weeping with her. 'What are you weeping for, father?' 'For you, dear, because you're not happy.' 'There are other reasons,' she said, looking inquiringly and tenderly. 'No, dear, there's nothing else now in the world for me to grieve for. You must go back to the convent if you're not happy.' 'But you, father?' 'It will be hard to lose you... things may change. You must have patience; wait a little while, will you?' 'Of course, father, as long as you like, but you'll come down and talk to me here?' 'Yes; I should have come oftener, but I know that I'm not clever, my conversation isn't amusing, so I stick at my work up there.' 'You live up there?' 'Yes; you've not seen my room--a little room under the slates-- something like a monk's cell. I've often thought of going into a monastery. I daresay it is from me that you get the taste.' 'You live up there, father; your room is up there. May I go up and see you sometimes; I shan't be disturbing you at your work, shall I?' 'No; I should think not: just fancy you wishing to come to see me, and up there too!' 'When may I come, father? When are you least busy?' 'You can come now.' 'May I?' 'We mustn't make any noise; all the servants are asleep,' and he held the candle higher for her to see the last steps, and he pushed open a door. 'It is here.'