One day, soon after her recovery, she was sitting by the fire, when
Ellen, the fisherman's daughter, to whom we have before alluded, entered
the room, and observing that Agnes looked somewhat downcast, kindly
inquired the cause, for the gratitude she had manifested for every
little act of kindness, had deeply endeared her to those with whom she
was now associated.

"I hope you do not feel any worse, dear lady," she said.

"Oh, no, Ellen," was the reply, while a smile instantly dissipated the
shadow that had obscured for a moment her countenance. "And how deeply
grateful should I feel," she added after a short pause, "first to my
Heavenly Father, and then to you and your kind family, whose unwearied
care and attention have been so instrumental in my recovery; and I trust
yet to have it in my power to show my sense of your kindness."

"Don't, Miss Wiltshire, please don't say anything more. Why, we only did
what any persons, with common feelings, would have done."

"Nevertheless," persisted Agnes, "I feel under very great obligations to
you all. But I will tell you what made me look a little melancholy when
you came in. Your father informed me, this morning, that there would be
no possibility of my communicating with my home until spring, and thus
my relatives and friends, not having any intelligence of me, for so long
a time, will certainly believe that I have found a watery grave."

"But when you return home, what a delightful surprise they will get;
why, it would be worth enduring months of pain for," said Ellen, who
seemed to have the happy faculty of always looking at the bright side.