"I left that poor lady, already overwhelmed with misfortune, prostrated anew by your attack of this afternoon. I left her dissolved in tears-- shaken by agitation; and I resolved that my first act of duty should be to remonstrate privately--observe, I say privately--against the heartlessness which could pour in drops of bitterness to make the already brimming cup overflow. Now, what have you to say?" "I should wish to know, sir, what part of my conduct it is that is wrong. If I knew this, I am sure--" "If you knew! My good woman, this blindness and self-satisfaction appear to show that this life of peace, which you yourself acknowledge yours has been, has gone somewhat too far--has not been altogether blessed to you. If you are really so satisfied with yourself as to be unable to see any sin within you--" "Oh, sir! Do not think me impatient if I make haste to say that I never harboured such a thought. It makes me sink with shame to think of my ever having possibly such a thought. What I asked for, sir, was to know my sin towards Lady Carse, that I might make reparation if I could, and--will it please you, sir, to tell me--" "Tell me, rather, what sin you are conscious of; and we shall then get at the bottom of this last offence. Come, let me hear!" Annie looked down, hesitated, blushed deeply, and said she supposed it was owing to her not being accustomed to the blessing of having a pastor that she found it so difficult to open her heart now that the blessing was given for which she had so often prayed. She would strive to overcome the difficulty. After a pause she said her chief trouble about her state of mind was that some of her trust and peace seemed to have left her. "Ah! the moment it is put to the test!" said Mr Ruthven. "Just so, sir; that is what I said to myself. As long as I lived alone, out of the sound of any voice but Rollo's, I thought my peace was settled, and that I was only waiting for the better peace which is to come hereafter. Then, when Rollo was away, and my mind was searching doubtfully after him, where he might be, and whether safe or killed, I could always find rest, and say to myself that he was in God's hand, to die _now_ or to live to close my eyes. But now, sir, there is a sadness come over me; though I am obliged to your dear children for many cheerful hours--I would not forget that. But as for my own child, when I hear his voice merry from behind your garden wall, when I have been longing for days to see his face--or when your children tell me things that he has said, just while my ear is pining for his voice, I find myself less settled in mind than I was--much less settled, sir, than I think a Christian woman ought to be."