Rebecca, soothed by Henry's compassionate eloquence, held out her arms and received the important parcel; and, as she kindly looked in upon the little stranger, "Now, are not you much obliged to me," said Henry, "for having brought it to you? I know no one but yourself to whom I would have trusted it with pleasure." "Much obliged to you," repeated Rebecca, with a very serious face, "if I did but know what to do with it--where to put it--where to hide it from my father and sisters." "Oh! anywhere," returned Henry. "It is very good--it will not cry. Besides, in one of the distant, unfrequented rooms of your old abbey, through the thick walls and long gallery, an infant's cry cannot pass. Yet, pray be cautious how you conceal it; for if it should be discovered by your father or sisters, they will take it from you, prosecute the wretched mother, and send the child to the parish." "I will do all I can to prevent them," said Rebecca; "and I think I call to mind a part of the house where it _must_ be safe. I know, too, I can take milk from the dairy, and bread from the pantry, without their being missed, or my father much the poorer. But if--" That instant they were interrupted by the appearance of the stern curate at a little distance. Henry was obliged to run swiftly away, while Rebecca returned by stealth into the house with her innocent burthen. CHAPTER XXVI. There is a word in the vocabulary more bitter, more direful in its import, than all the rest. Reader, if poverty, if disgrace, if bodily pain, even if slighted love be your unhappy fate, kneel and bless Heaven for its beneficent influence, so that you are not tortured with the anguish of--_remorse_. Deep contrition for past offences had long been the punishment of unhappy Agnes; but, till the day she brought her child into the world, _remorse_ had been averted. From that day, life became an insupportable load, for all reflection was torture! To think, merely to think, was to suffer excruciating agony; yet, never before was _thought_ so intrusive--it haunted her in every spot, in all discourse or company: sleep was no shelter--she never slept but her racking dreams told her--"she had slain her infant." They presented to her view the naked innocent whom she had longed to press to her bosom, while she lifted up her hand against its life. They laid before her the piteous babe whom her eyeballs strained to behold once more, while her feet hurried her away for ever. Often had Agnes, by the winter's fire, listened to tales of ghosts--of the unceasing sting of a guilty conscience; often had she shuddered at the recital of murders; often had she wept over the story of the innocent put to death, and stood aghast that the human mind could premeditate the heinous crime of assassination.