Jane Smithson began at once, and had a great deal to say, so much, indeed, that all were soon tired of her, although she contrived to introduce into her words as little information as might be about herself. She spoke indeed both of trials, prayers, and praises, of the necessity for repentance and for faith, but always in such a regular, even tone as let no glimpse of her inner life be seen. She seemed to be about thirty, and might have been a servant, was dressed neatly in black, and wore an old, silk mantle; and round her face, which was somewhat plump, though sallow, was a round black bonnet that was tied beneath her chin. Before the end of her words, which were wearisome, Annie had begun to thrill and flush with fear, for she was herself on the right hand of the speaker, with Alice seated on the other side of her. Oh! what should she do if she were herself addressed?.... and how could these people talk _so_ of their religion? her passionate, silent nature revolted from their words. As the endless voice drew to a close at last, her heart choked her breath with terror; she drove her nails into the palms of both her hands, and kept her eyes firmly bent upon the ground. She would not look up, even if she were addressed, and he would see that she did not mean to answer. ‘Alice Robson, tell us, please, how the Lord has been dealing with you.’ The shock of relief, and perhaps of disappointment--relief and disappointment can be so strangely mixed!--was considerably softened for Annie by the wonder how Alice would ever be able to find courage enough to speak. She need not have wondered, for in spite of her reserve the farmer’s daughter could bear such an ordeal well. Alice answered softly and very modestly, but yet in a manner that arrested attention; for the absence of formality is a quality to be noticed in a Class. ‘I’ve been troubled lately,’ said Alice, softly, quietly, with a slight quiver in her voice, a faint colour in her cheek; ‘I’ve been thinking of one as seems to be in danger, and feeling as if in some way I ought to help. An’ then I’ve wondered if it was all selfishness in me, an’ if I was really only feared to lose a friend; but I hope I’ll be taught to feel as I ought to do, an’ as the one I fear for ’ll be kept from harm an’ wrong.’ Mr Bender bent towards her to give her his advice (he had only said a few words in answer to the first member’s speech), whilst the whole class was stirred by some visible curiosity with regard to the mysterious friend of whom she had spoken. ‘It’s Tim,’ thought Annie, after rapid consideration, with which was mingled a thrill of irresistible anger--of anger that the mention of one whom she had learned to think her property could bring the colour to another woman’s cheek. So hopelessly mistaken do we all become when we attempt to penetrate another’s heart.