On the present evening, Grace had agreed to meet her lover, after the family worship in her father’s cottage, for the young man was about to depart from the village on the following day. The moment she was alone in the room, the struggle in her mind, increased by the words of her mother, depicted itself on her sweet face in an expression of doubtful agony, such as never had sat upon her countenance before--for its ordinary expression was that of the most seraphic serenity. She took up her little Bible to find some word of excuse for her contemplated act of disobedience, but it was only to turn over the leaves with a throbbing heart and wandering brain, that would not permit her attention to be arrested by the words before her. Laying the holy book down again, she sunk upon her knees to pray. The ordinary words of her devotions were not urged, but she asked God to forgive her for the sin she was about to commit, and rose confirmed and strengthened in her purpose. Sitting down by her lattice, she listened for every sound within the cottage to die away. At length, when all was still and dark, she lifted the latch of her door and stole to the threshold of her father’s room. Finding all quiet, she retraced her steps, and raised the sash of her low window with the caution of one who fears danger in the beating of her own heart. Jumping through this, she alighted on the garden plot below. She proceeded to steal along under the shadow until she reached a rustic arbor, which she hurried into, and was welcomed in the arms of her lover. “So you have come at last!” he said, joyfully. But as he spoke, he saw her eyes were filled with tears. She buried her face in his bosom, and her sobs became audible. Raising her head gently and kissing her through her tears, he smoothed the golden hair back from her forehead. “What aileth thee, my beloved?” he asked, after he had soothed the first outburst of her emotion. “Charles,” she sighed, as she looked up at him eagerly and endearingly, “I fear I do wrong to meet you here against my parents’ wishes.” “Your conscience is too tender, sweet innocence,” was his reply. “God is more lenient in his judgment than thou deemest him. He hath implanted in thy bosom the very love for me and inclination to meet me here which thou art now afraid he will condemn; and thine own immaculate virtue and purity are thy sure safeguards from greater harm than he who now speaks could ever bring upon thee. Dearest, I would not hurt a hair of your beloved head, still less bring upon thee the judgments of Heaven. Dost thou not believe it, Grace?” “Nay, but your religion?” she urged timidly--