Still silence. Greater excitement. The face of Annie was flaming, but her lips continued to close upon each other. For one instant the minister gazed upon her silently, then he rose from his chair, and gave the number of the hymn. If, at that moment, she felt the impulse of confession, it was then too late, and the time for speech was gone. Ah! would it have been better if that troubled, silent nature could have compelled itself to speak, to give words to the conflict that raged within its heart, and seek for some help that might avail to save? Would future misery have been averted, if that opportunity had met with response? I cannot tell; I can only say, that to Annie, such public confession would have been unnatural; her whole nature shrank from laying bare to strangers the inmost recesses she veiled even from herself. She had come to the Class with some vague hope of assistance, but it was not in such ways that her trouble could find relief; to speak of her anguish seemed impossible, and she could not speak without speaking honestly. And yet, at that moment, she was troubled, thrilled, excited, her heart had been touched, although her lips were silent! She stood with the members, and from their united tones came the pathetic cadence of a hymn--she heard the voices of her companions rise and fall, if she had opened her own lips she would have broken down into tears. ‘When the weary, seeking rest, to Thy goodness flee, When the heavy-laden cast all their load on Thee, When the troubled, seeking peace, on Thy name shall call, When the sinner, seeking life, at Thy feet shall fall ... Hear then, in love, O Lord, the cry, from heaven, Thy dwelling-place on high.’ The voices ceased, the members knelt, prayed silently, rose again, the Class meeting was over.... Scarce a word passed between the two girls, as, unaccompanied, they found their way over the fields towards their homes, whilst slanting sunlight fell on them, and on the meadows, and on corn-fields ripening beneath the summer sun. At the gates of the yard they paused and kissed each other, then silently separated, and Annie went on to her home; her passionate thoughts still struggling beneath an impulse of duty which had been unknown to her before. ‘I will be good,’ thought poor Annie, desperately; ‘I willent meet him within the fields again; if he wants to have me he must come up to t’ house, and tell before mother all he has to say. I would ha’ told mother about him long ago, but I didn’t like sin’ he allays begged me not; it seemed so hard on him as is like a gentleman to be tied to me who am but a village girl. But I will be honest; I’ll have no double-dealing; I’ll give him up sooner than do wrong for him.’ As the words trembled on her lips she turned the handle of the cottage door; she entered and crossed the threshold of her home. And in an instant she stood still, struck with dismay--her father was there, he had returned once more. CHAPTER XIII