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!'"

POST SCRIPTUM

_Spitalfields, 1680_.

A