DEBORAH'S DIARY (continued 2)

"As well die," cries Anne, bursting into Tears, "as live to hear such a Rebuke as this." And so, passionately wringing her Hands, runs out of the Room.

"Follow after her, Deb," cries Father; "she is beside herself. Unhappy me! tried every Way! An Oedipus with no Antigone!"

And, rising from his Seat, he began to pace up and down, while I ran up to Nan. But scarce had I reached the Stair-head, when we both heard a heavy Fall in the Chamber below. We cried, "Sure, that is Father!" and ran down quicker than we had run up. He was just rising as we entered, his Foot having caught in a long Coil of Gold Lace, which Anne, in her disorderly Exit, had unwittingly dragged after her. I saw at a Glance he was annoyed rather than hurt; but Nan, without a Moment's Pause, darts into his Arms, in a Passion of Pity and Repentance, crying, "Oh, Father, Father, forgive me! oh, Father!"

"Tis all of a Piece, Nan," he replies; "alternate hot and cold; every Thing for Passion, nothing for Reason. Now all for me; a Minute ago, I might go to the Wall for John Herring."

"No, never, Father!" cries Anne; "never, dear Father—"

"Dark are the Ways of God," continues he, unheeding her; "not only annulling his first best Gift of Light to me, and leaving me a Prey to daily Contempt, Abuse, and Wrong, but mangling my tenderest, most apprehensive Feelings—"

Anne again breaks in with, "Oh! Father, Father!"

"Dark, dark, for ever dark!" he went on; "but just are the Ways of God to Man. Who shall say, 'What doest Thou?'"

"Father, I promise you," says Anne, "that I will never more think of John Herring."

"Foolish Girl!" he replies sadly; "as ready now to promise too Much, as resolute just now to hear Nothing. How can you promise never to think of him? I never asked it of you."

"At least I can promise not to speak of him," says Anne.

"Therein you will do wisely," rejoins Father. "My Consent having been asked is an Admission that I have a Right to give or withhold it; and, as I have already told John Herring, I shall certainly not grant it before you are of Age. Perhaps by that Time you may be your own Mistress, without even such an ill Home as I, while I live, can afford you."

"No more of that," says Anne, interrupting him; and a Kiss sealed the Compact.

All this Time, Mother and Mary were, providentially, out of the Way. Mother had gone off in a Huff, and Mary was busied in making some marbled Veal.

The rest of the Day was dull enough: violent Emotions are commonly succeeded by flat Stagnations. Anne, however, seemed kept up by some Energy from within, and looked a little flushed. At Bed-time she got the start of me, as usuall; and, on entering our Chamber, I found her quite undrest, sitting at the Table, not reading of her Bible, but with her Head resting on it. I should have taken her to be asleep, but for the quick Pulsation of some Nerve or Muscle at the back of the Neck, somewhere under the right Ear. She looks up, commences rubbing her Eyes, and says, "My Eyes are full of Sand, I think. I will give you my new Crown-piece, Deb, if you will read me to sleep without another Word." So I say, "A Bargain," though without meaning to take the Crown; and she jumps into Bed in a Minute, and I begin at the Sermon on the Mount, and keep on and on, in more and more of a Monotone; but every Time I lookt up, I saw her Eyes wide open, agaze at the top of the Bed; and so I go on and on, like a Bee humming over a Flower, till she shuts her Eyes; but, at last, when I think her off, having just got to Matthew, eleven, twenty-eight, she fetches a deep sigh, and says, "I wish I could hear Him saying so to me . . . 'Come, Anne, unto me, and I will give you Rest.' But, in fact, He does so as emphatically in addressing all the weary and heavy-laden, as if I heard Him articulating, 'Come, Anne, come!'"