“Oh, Laurence! Laurence!” said the old Father, with emotion, “is it needful for me to say, how mean and paltry, how malicious, how unkind, how cruel is such conduct towards any one? But towards such a girl as Jill!—Oh, Laurence! Come! Come! I see the tears of shame and sorrow in your eyes. You _do_ feel it.” Yes! Laurence did feel it. He buried his face in his hands and wept. Foolish habits and evil companionship had done him much harm, but they had not destroyed all good. Here and there, in his neglected nature, were some spots where the beautiful still grew, like patches of verdure in a desert of sand. Now, the good within him awoke and stirred—the evil sank into silence and slumbered. Shame and sorrow fell upon his spirit, as summer rain upon withering flowers, and the true and the beautiful revived. Father M’Callagh promised the distressed father and the repentant son that he would not speak of this discovery to any one in the world but Jill. Now that a gracious repentance had begun its work, they need not fear anything harsh or indelicate from those who knew the circumstances. Then, with a few words of solace and encouragement, the good old Priest shook hands with both father and son, and went away. In a few minutes he arrived at the widow’s cottage. He asked to speak with Jill alone, and then he told her of the discovery he had just made; he spoke, too, of the sincere penitence of Laurence, and asked her to forgive him. Then, putting all the letters into her hands, he bade her adieu, and left her to go up into her little bed-chamber, and read over their happy and loving contents, with beating heart and tearful eyes. One day, about a month after this incident, Jill was sitting at the window working, when Laurence opened the garden-gate, and came forward with a letter in his hand. It had just arrived, and he had requested his father to let him be the bearer of it. It was the first time he had ventured to shew himself to Jill since the affair of his dishonour towards her. She came forward into the garden to meet him, and took the letter from his hand. He blushed, and trembled a little as he delivered it to her; with a faltering voice, he asked if Father M’Callagh had told her how very sorry he was that— “Yes—yes, Laurence! he told me all about it!” said Jill, interrupting him. “I know you are sorry, and that you would never do so again to any one.” “Never! never!” said Laurence, with great emphasis. “Believe me—never!” “Of course, you would not! therefore we will say no more about it. Now, Laurence, please let me go and read my letter. Good bye!” and she held out her hand so prettily, and pressed it into his so gently, yet so warmly, and looked into his face with so much simplicity and sweetness, that Laurence felt the tears starting to his eyes. These new touches of tenderness and mercy strengthened his virtue, and made his heart steady in the beautiful change upon which he had resolved.