in the history of the affections we know that circumstances sometimes occur, where duty and inclination maintain a conflict so nicely balanced so as to render it judicious not to exact a fulfillment of the former, lest by deranging the structure of our moral feelings, we render the mind either insensible to their existence, or incapable of regulating them. this observation applies only to those subordinate positions of life which involve no great principle of conduct, and violate no cardinal point of human duty. we ought neither to do evil nor suffer evil to be done, where our authority can prevent it, in order that good may follow. but in matters where our own will creates the offence, it is in some peculiar cases not only prudent but necessary to avoid straining a mind naturally delicate, beyond the powers which we know it to possess. we think, for instance, that it was wrong in mr. sinclair, at a moment when the act of separating from osborne might have touched, the feelings of his daughter into that softness which lightens and relieves the heart, abruptly to suppress emotions so natural, by exacting a proof of obedience too severe and oppressive to the heart of one who loved as jane did. she knew it was her duty to obey him the moment he expressed his wish; but he was bound by no duty to demand such an unnecessary proof of her obedience. the immediate consequences, however, made him sufficiently sensible of his error, and taught him that a knowledge of the human heart is the most difficult task which a parent has to learn.

jane, conducted by her parents, having reached another apartment, sat down—her father taking a chair on one side, and her mother on the other.

“my darling,” said mr. sinclair, “i will never forget this proof of your obedience to me, on so trying an occasion. i knew i might rely upon my daughter.”

jane made no reply to this, but sat apparently wrapped up in an ecstacy of calm and unbroken delight. the smile of happiness with which she contemplated osborne, on taking her last look of him, was still upon her face, and contrasted so strongly with the agony which they knew she must have felt, that her parents, each from an apprehension of alarming the other, feared openly to allude to it, although they felt their hearts sink in dismay and terror.

“jane, why do you not speak to your papa and me?” said her mother; “speak to us, love, speak to us—if it was only one word.”

she appeared not to hear this, nor to be at all affected by her mother’s voice or words. after the latter spoke she smiled again, and immediately putting up her long white fingers through the ringlets that shaded her cheek, she pulled them down as one would pressing them with slight convulsive energy as they passed through, her fingers.

“henry, dear, what—what is the matter with her?” inquired her mother, whose face became pale with alarm. “oh! what is wrong with my child!—she does not know us!—gracious heaven, whats is this!”

“jane, my love, wont you speak to your papa?” said mr. sinclair. “speak to me, my darling,—it is i,—it is your own papa that asks you?”

she looked up, and seemed for a moment struggling to recover a consciousness of her situation; but it passed away, and the scarcely perceptible meaning which began almost to become visible in her eye, was again succeeded by that smile which they both so much dreaded to see.

the old man shook his head, and looked with a brow darkened by sorrow, first upon his daughter, and afterwards upon his wife. “my heart’s delight,” he exclaimed, “i fear i have demanded more from your obedience than you could perform without danger to yourself. i wish i had allowed her grief to flow, and not required such an abrupt and unseasonable proof of her duty. it was too severe an injunction to a creature so mild and affectionate,—and would to god that i had not sought it!”

“would to heaven that you had not, my dear henry. let us try, however, and move her heart,—if tears could come she would be relieved.”

“bring agnes in,” said her father, “bring in agnes, she may succeed better with her than we can,—and if charles be not already gone, there is no use in distressing him by at all alluding to her situation. she is only overpowered, i trust, and will soon recover.” the mother, on her way to bring agnes to her sister, met the rest of the family returning to the house after having taken leave of osborne. the two girls were weeping, for they looked upon him as already a brother; whilst william, in a good-humored tone, bantered them for the want of firmness.

“i think, mother,” said he, “they are all in love with him, if they would admit it. why here’s maria and agnes, and i dare say they’re making as great a rout about him as jane herself! but bless me! what’s the, matter, mother, that you look so pale and full of alarm?”

“it’s jane—it’s jane,” said agnes. “mother, there’s something wrong!” and as she spoke she stopped, with uplifted hands, apparently fastened to the earth.

“my poor child!” exclaimed her mother,—“for heaven’s sake come in, agnes. oh, heaven grant that it may soon pass away. agnes, dear girl, you know her best—come in quick; her papa wants you to try what you can do with her.”

in a moment this loving family, with pale faces and beating hearts, stood in a circle about their affectionate and beautiful sister. jane sat with her passive hand tenderly pressed between her father’s,—smiling; but whether in unconscious happiness or unconscious misery, who alas! can say?

“you see she knows none of us,” said her mother. “neither her papa nor me. speak to her each of you, in turn. perhaps you may be more successful. agnes,—”

“she will know me,” replied agnes; “i am certain she will know me;”—and the delightful girl spoke with an energy that was baaed upon the confidence of that love which subsisted between them. maria and her brother both burst into tears; but agnes’s affection rose above the mood of ordinary grief. the confidence that her beloved sister’s tenderness for her would enable her to touch a chord in a heart so utterly her own as jane’s was, assumed upon this occasion the character of a wild but mournful enthusiasm, that was much more expressive of her attachment than could be the loudest and most vehement sorrow.

“if she could but shed tears,” said her mother, wringing her hands.

“she will,” returned agnes, “she will. jane,” she exclaimed, “jane, don’t you know your own agnes?—your own agnes, jane?”

the family waited in silence for half a minute, but their beloved one smiled on, and gave not the slightest token of recognizing either agnes’s person or her voice. sometimes her lips moved, and she appeared to be repeating certain words to herself, but in a voice so low and indistinct that no one could catch them.

agnes’s enthusiasm abandoned her on seeing that that voice to which her own dearest sister ever sweetly and lovingly responded, fell upon her ear as an idle and unmeaning sound. her face became deadly pale, and her lip quivered, as she again addressed the unconscious girl. once more she took her hand in hers, and placing herself before her, put her fingers to her cheek in order to arrest her attention.

“jane, look upon me; look upon me;—that’s a sweet child,—look upon me. sure i am agnes—your own agnes, who will break her heart if my sweet sister doesn’t speak to her.”

the stricken one raised her head, and looked into her face; but it was, alas! too apparent that she saw her not; for the eye, though smiling, was still vacant. again her lips moved, and she spoke so as to be understood towards the door through which she had entered.

“yes,” she exclaimed, in the same low, placid voice, “yes, he is beautiful! is he not beautiful? fatal beauty!—fatal beauty! it is a fatal thing—it is a fatal thing!—but he is very, very beautiful!”

“jane,” said maria, taking her hand from agnes’s, “jane, speak to maria, dear. am not i, too, your own maria? that loves you not less than—my darling, darling child—they do not live that love you better than your own maria;—in pity, darling, in pity speak to me!”

the only reply was a smile, that rose into the murmuring music of a low laugh; but this soon ceased, her countenance became troubled, and her finely-pencilled brows knit, as if with an inward sense of physical pain. william, her father, her mother, each successively addressed her, but to no purpose. though a slight change had taken place, they could not succeed in awakening her reason to a perception of the circumstances in which she was placed. they only saw that the unity of her thought, or of the image whose beauty veiled the faculties of her mind was broken, and that some other memory, painful in its nature, had come in to disturb the serenity of her unreal happiness; but this, which ought to have given them hope, only alarmed them the more. the father, while these tender and affecting experiments were tried, sat beside her, his eyes laboring under a weight of deep and indescribable calamity, and turning from her face to the faces of those who attempted to recall her reason, with a mute vehemence of sorrow which called up from the depths of their sister’s misery a feeling of compassion for the old man whom she had so devotedly loved.

“my father’s heart is breaking,” said william, groaning aloud, and covering his face with his hands. “father, your face frightens me more than jane’s;—don’t, father, don’t. she is young,—it will pass away—and father dear where is your reliance upon her—upon her aid!”

“dear henry,” said his wife, “you should be our support. it is the business of your life to comfort and sustain the afflicted.”

“papa,” said agnes, “come with me for a few minutes, until you recover the shock which—which——”

she stopped, and dropping her head upon the knees of her smiling and apparently happy sister, wept aloud.

“agnes—agnes,” said william, (they were all in tears except her father) “agnes, i am ashamed of you;”—yet his own cheeks were wet, and his voice faltered. “father, come with me for awhile. you will when alone for a few minutes, bethink you of your duty—for it is your duty to bear this not only as becomes a christian man, but a christian minister, who is bound to give us example as well as precept.”

“i know it, william, i know it;—and you shall witness my fortitude, my patience, my resignation under this—this——-. i will retire. but is she not—alas! i should say, was she not my youngest and my dearest! you admit yourselves she was the best.”

“father, come,” said william.

“dear father—dear papa, go with him,” said agnes.

“my father,” said maria, “as he said to her, will be himself.”

“i will go,” said the old man; “i know how to be firm; i will reflect; i will pray; i will weep. i must, i must——”

he pressed the beautiful creature to his bosom, kissed her lips, and as he hung over her, his tears fell in torrents upon her cheeks.

oh! what a charm must be in sympathy, and in the tears which it sheds over the afflicted, when those of the grey-haired father could soothe his daughter’s soul into that sorrow which is so often a relief to the miserable and disconsolate!

when jane first felt his tears upon her cheeks, she started slightly, and the smile departed from her countenance. as he pressed her to his heart she struggled a little, and putting her arms out, she turned up her eyes upon his face, and after a long struggle between memory and insanity, at length whispered out “papa!”

“you are with me, darling,” he exclaimed; “and i am with you, too: and here we are all about you,—your mother, and agnes, and all.”

“yes, yes,” she replied; “but papa,—and where is my mamma?”

“i am here, my own love; here i am. jane, collect yourself, my treasure. you are overcome with sorrow. the parting from charles osborne has been too much for you.”

“perhaps it was wrong to mention his name,” whispered william. “may it not occasion a relapse, mother?”

“no,” she replied. “i want to touch her heart, and get her to weep if possible.”

her daughter’s fingers were again involved in the tangles of her beautiful ringlets, and once more was the sweet but vacant smile returning to her lips.

“may god relieve her and us,” said maria; “the darling child is relapsing!”

agnes felt so utterly overcome, that she stooped, and throwing her arms around her neck wept aloud, with her cheek laid to jane’s.

again the warmth of the tears upon the afflicted one’s face seemed to soothe or awaken her. she looked up, and with a troubled face exclaimed:—

“i hope i am not!—agnes, you are good, and never practised deceit,—am i? am i?”

“are you what, love? are you what, jane, darling?”

“am i a cast-away? i thought i was. i believe i am—agnes?”

“well, dear girl!”

“i am afraid of my papa.”

“why, jane, should you be afraid of papa. sure you know how he loves you—dotes upon you?”

“because i practised deceit upon him. i dissembled to him. i sinned, sinned deeply;—blackly, blackly. i shudder to think of it;” and she shuddered while speaking.

“well, but jane dear,” said her mother, soothingly, “can you not weep for your fault. tears of repentance can wipe out any crime. weep, my child, weep, and it will relieve your heart.”

“i would like to see my papa,” she replied. “i should be glad to hear that he forgives me: how glad! how glad! that’s all that troubles your poor jane; all in the world that troubles her poor heart—i think.”

these words were uttered in a tone of such deep and inexpressible misery, and with such an innocent and childlike unconsciousness of the calamity which weighed her down that no heart possessing common humanity could avoid being overcome.

“look on me, love,” exclaimed her father. “your papa is here, ready to pity and forgive you.”

“william,” said agnes, “a thought strikes me,—the air that charles played when they first met has been her favorite ever since you know it—go get your flute and play it with as much feeling as you can.”

jane made no reply to her father’s words. she sat musing, and once or twice put up her hand to her sidelocks, but immediately withdrew it, and again fell into a reverie. sometimes her face brightened into the fatal smile, and again became overshadowed with a gloom that seemed to proceed from a feeling of natural grief. indeed the play of meaning and insanity, as they chased each other over a countenance so beautiful, was an awful sight, even to an indifferent beholder, much less to those who then stood about her.

william in about a minute returned with his flute, and placing himself behind her, commenced the air in a spirit more mournful probably than any in which it had ever before been played. for a long time she noticed it not: that is to say, she betrayed no external marks of attention to it. they could perceive, however, that although she neither moved nor looked around her, yet the awful play of her features ceased, and; their expression became more intelligent and natural. at length she sighed deeply several times, though without appearing to hear the music; and at length, without uttering a word to any one of them, she laid her head i upon her father’s bosom, and the tears fell; in placid torrents down her cheeks. by a signal from his hand, mr. sinclair intimated that for the present they should be silent; and by another addressed to william, that he should play on. he did so, and she wept copiously under the influence of that charmed melody for more than twenty minutes.

“it would be well for me,” she at length said, “that is, i fear it would, that i had never heard that air, or seen him who first sent its melancholy music to my heart. he is gone; but when—when will he return?”

“do not take his departure so heavily, dear child,” said her father. “if you were acquainted with life and the world you would know that a journey to the continent is nothing. two years to one as young as you are will soon pass.”

“it would, papa, if i loved him less. but my love for him—my love for him—that now is my misery. i must, however, rely upon other strength than my own. papa, kneel down and pray for me,—and you, mamma, and all of you; for i fear i am myself incapable of praying as i used to do, with an un-divided heart.”

her father knelt down, but knowing her weak state of mind, he made his supplication as short and simple as might be consistent with the discharge of a duty so solemn.

“now,” said she, when it was concluded, “will you, mamma, and agnes, help me to bed; i am very much exhausted, and my heart is sunk as if it were never to beat lightly again. it may yet; i would hope it,—hope it if i could.”

they allowed her her own way, and without any allusion whatsoever to charles, or his departure, more than she had made herself, they embraced her; and in a few minutes she was in bed, and as was soon evident to agnes, who watched her, in a sound sleep.

why is it that those who are dear to us are more tenderly dear to us while asleep than while awake? it is indeed difficult to say but we know that there are many in life and nature, especially in the and affections, which we feel as distinct truths without being able to satisfy ourselves they are so. this is one of them. what parent does not love the offspring more glowingly while the features are composed in sleep? what young husband does not feel his heart melt with a warmer emotion, on contemplating the countenance of his youthful wife, when that countenance is overshadowed with the placid but somewhat mournful beauty of repose?

when the family understood from agnes that jane had fallen into a slumber, they stole up quietly, and standing about her, each looked upon her with a long gaze of relief and satisfaction; for they knew that sleep would repair the injury which the trial of that day had wrought upon a mind so delicately framed as her’s. we question not but where there is beauty it is still more beautiful in sleep. the passions are then at rest, and the still harmony of the countenance unbroken by the jarring discords and vexations of waking life; every feature then falls into its natural place, and renders the symmetry of the face chaster, whilst its general expression breathes more of that tender and pensive character, which constitutes the highest order of beauty.

jane’s countenance, in itself so exquisitely lovely, was now an object of deep and melancholy interest. upon it might be observed faint traces of those contending emotions whose struggle had been on that day so nearly fatal to her mind for ever. the smile left behind it a faint and dying light, like the dim radiance of a spring evening when melting into dusk;—whilst the secret dread of becoming a cast-away, and the still abiding consciousness of having deceived her father, blended into the languid serenity of her face a slight expression of the pain they had occasioned her while awake.

“unhappy girl! there she lay in her innocence and beauty like a summer lake whose clear waters have settled into stillness after a recent storm; reflecting, as they pass, the clouds now softened into milder forms, which had but a little time before so deeply agitated them.

“oh, no wonder,” said her father, “that the boy who loves her should say he would not leave her, and that separation would break down the strength of his heart and spirit. a fairer thing—a purer being never closed her eyelids upon the cares and trials of life. light may those caros be, oh! beloved of our hearts; and refreshing the slumbers that are upon you; and may the blessing and merciful providence of god guard and keep you from evil! amen! amen!”

maria on this occasion was deeply affected jane’s arm lay outside the coverlid, and her sister observed that her white and beautiful fingers were affected from time to time with slight starting twitches, apparently nervous.

this, contrasted with the stillness of her face, impressed the girl with an apprehension that the young mourner, though asleep, was still suffering pain; but when her father spoke and blessed her, she felt her heart getting full, and bending over jane she imprinted a kiss upon her cheek;—affectionate, indeed, was that kiss, but timid and light as the full of the thistle-down upon a leaf of the rose or the lily. when she withdrew her lips, a tear was visible on the cheek of the sleeper—a circumstance which, slight as it was, gave a character of inexpressible love and tenderness to the act. they then quietly left her, with the excertion of agnes, and all were relieved and delighted at seeing her enjoy a slumber so sound and refreshing.

the next morning they arose earlier than usual, in order to watch the mood in which she might awake; and when agnes, who had been her bed-fellow, came down stairs, every eye was turned upon her with an anxiety proportioned to the disastrous consequences that might result from any unfavorable turn in her state of feeling.

“agnes,” said her father, “how is she?—in what state?—in what frame of mind?”

“she appears much distressed, papa—feels conscious that charles is gone—but as yet has made no allusion to their parting yesterday. indeed i do not think she remembers it. she is already up, and begged this moment of me to leave her to herself for a little.”

“‘i want strength, agnes,’ said she, ‘and i know there is but one source from which i can obtain it. advice, consolation, and sympathy, i may and will receive here; but strength—strength is what i most stand in need of, and that only can proceed from him who gives rest to the heavy laden.’

“‘you feel too deeply, jane,’ i replied; ‘you should try to be firm.’

“‘i do try, agnes; but tell me, have i not been unwell, very unwell?’

“‘your feelings, dear jane, overcame you yesterday, as was natural they should—but now that you are calm, of course you will not yield to despondency or melancholy. your dejection, though at present deep, will soon pass away, and ere many days you will be as cheerful as ever.’

“‘i hope so; but charles is gone, is he not?’

“‘but you know it was necessary that he should travel for his health; besides, have you not formed a plan of correspondence with each other?’

“then,” proceeded agnes, “she pulled out the locket which contained his hair, and after looking on it for about a minute, she kissed it, pressed it to her heart, and whilst in the act of doing so a few tears ran down her cheeks.

“i am glad of that,” observed her mother; “it is a sign that this heavy grief will not long-abide upon her.”

“she then desired me,” continued agnes, “to leave her, and expressed a sense of her own weakness, and the necessity of spiritual support, as i have already told you. i am sure the worst is over.”

“blessed be god, i trust it is,” said her father; “but whilst i live, i will never demand from her such a proof of her obedience as that which i imposed upon her yesterday. she will soon be down to breakfast, and we must treat the dear girl kindly, and gently, and affectionately; tenderly, tenderly must she be treated; and, children, much depends upon you—keep her mind engaged. you have music—play more than you do—read more—walk more—sing more. i myself will commence a short course of lectures upon the duties and character of women, in the single and married state of life; alternately with which i will also give you a short course upon belles-lettres. if this engages and relieves her mind, it will answer an important purpose; but at all events it will be time well spent, and that is something.”

when jane appeared at breakfast, she was paler than usual; but then the expression of her countenance, though pensive, was natural. mr. sinclair placed her between himself and her mother, and each kissed her in silence ere she sat down.

“i have been very unwell yesterday,papa. i know i must have been; but i have made my mind up to bear his absence with fortitude—not that it is his mere absence which i feel so severely, but an impression that some calamity is to occur either to him or me.”

“impressions of that kind, my dear child, are the results of low spirits and a nervous habit. you should not suffer your mind to be disturbed by them; for, when it is weakened by suffering, they gather strength, and sometimes become formidable.”

“there is no bearing my calamity, papa, as it ought to be borne, without the grace of god, and you know we must pray to be made worthy of that. i dare say that if i am resigned and submissive that my usual cheerfulness will gradually return. i have confidence in heaven, papa, but none in my own strength, or i should rather say in my own weakness. my attachment to charles resembles a disease more than a healthy and rational passion. i know it is excessive, and i indeed think its excess is a disease. yet it is singular i do not fear my heart, papa, but i do my head; here is where the danger lies—here—here;” and as she spoke, she applied her hand to here forehead and gave a faint smile of melancholy apprehension.

“wait, jane,” said her brother; “just wait for a week or ten days, and if you don’t scold yourself for being now so childish, why never call me brother again. sure i understand these things like a philosopher. i have been three times in love myself.”

jane looked at him, and a faint sparkle of her usual good nature lit up her countenance.

“didn’t i tell you,” he proceeded, addressing them—“look; why i’ll soon have her as merry as a kid.”

“but who were you in love with, william,” asked agnes.

“i was smitten first with kate sharp, the applewoman, in consideration of her charmin’ method of giving me credit for fruit when i was a school-boy, and had no money. i thought her a very interesting woman, i assure you, and preferred my suit to her with signal success. i say signal, for you know she was then, as she is now, very hard of hearing, and i was forced to pay my suit to her by signs.”

“dear william,” said she, “i see your motive, and love you for it; but it is too soon—my spirits are not yet in tone for mirth or pleasantry—but they will be—they will be. i know it is too bad to permit an affliction that is merely sentimental to bear me down in this manner; but i cannot help it, and you must all only look on me as a weak, foolish girl, and forgive me, and pity me. mamma, i will lie down again, for i feel i am not, well; and oh, papa, if you ever prayed with fervor and sincerity, pray for strength to your own jane, and happiness to her stricken heart.”

she then retired, and for the remainder of that day confined herself partly to her bed, and altogether to her chamber; and it was observed, that from the innocent caprices of a sickly spirit, she called agnes, and her mother, and maria—sometimes one, and sometimes another—and had them always about her, each to hear a particular observation that occurred to her, or to ask some simple question, of no importance to any person except to one whose mind had become too sensitive upon the subject which altogether engrossed it. towards evening she had a long fit of weeping, after which she appeared more calm and resigned. she made her mother read her a chapter in the bible, and expressed a resolution to bear every thing she said as became one she hoped not yet beyond the reach of divine grace and christian consolation.

after a second night’s sleep she arose considerably relieved from the gloomy grief which had nearly wrought such a dreadful change in her intellect. her father’s plan of imperceptibly engaging her attention by instruction and amusement was carried into effect by him and her sisters, with such singular success, that at the lapse of a month she was almost restored to her wonted spirits. we say almost, because it was observed that, notwithstanding her apparent serenity, she never afterwards reached the same degree of cheerfulness, nor so richly exhibited in her complexion that purple glow, the hue of which lies like a visible charm upon the i cheek of youthful beauty.

time, however, is the best philosopher, and our heroine found that ere many weeks she could, with the exception of slight intervals, look back upon the day of separation from osborne, and forward to the expectation of his return, with a calmness of spirit by no means unpleasing to one who had placed such unlimited confidence in his affection. his first letter soothed, relieved, transported her. indeed, so completely was she overcome on receiving it, that the moment it was placed in her hands, her eyes seemed to have been changed into light, her limbs trembled with the agitation of a happiness so intense; and she at length sank into an ecstacy of joy, which was only relieved by a copious flood of tears.

for two years after this their correspondence was as regular as the uncertain motions of a tourist could permit it. jane appeared to be happy, and she was so within the limits of an enjoyment, narrowed in its character by the contingency arising from time and distance, and the other probabilities of disappointment which a timid heart and a pensive fancy will too often shape into certainty. fits of musing and melancholy she often had without any apparent cause, and when gently taken to task, or remonstrated with concerning them, she had only replied by weeping, or admitted that she could by no means account for her depression, except by saying that she believed it to be a defect in the habit and temper of her mind.

his tutor’s letters, both to charles’s father and hers, were nearly as welcome to jane as his own. he, in fact, could say that for his pupil, which his pupil’s modesty would not permit him to say for himself. oh! how her heart glowed, and conscious pride sparkled in her eye, when that worthy man described, the character of manly beauty which time and travel had gradually given to his person! and when his progress in knowledge and accomplishments, and the development of his taste and judgment became the theme of his tutor’s panegyric, she could not listen without betraying the vehement enthusiasm of a passion, which absence and time had only strengthened in her bosom.

these letters induced a series of sensations at once novel and delightful, and such as were calculated to give zest to an attachment thus left, to support itself, not from the presence of its object, but from the memory of tenderness that had already gone by. she knew charles osborne only as a boy—a beautiful boy it is true—and he knew her only as a graceful creature, whose extremely youthful appearance made it difficult whether to consider her merely as an advanced girl, or as a young female who had just passed into the first stage of womanhood. but now her fancy and affection had both room to indulge in that vivacious play which delights to paint a lover absent under such circumstances in the richest hues of imaginary beauty.

“how will he look,” she would say to her sister agnes, “when he returns a young man, settled into the fulness of his growth? taller he will be, and much more manly in his deportment. but is there no danger, agnes, of his losing in grace, in delicacy of complexion, in short, of losing in beauty what he may gain otherwise?”

“no, my dear, not in the least; you will be ten times prouder of him after his return than you ever were. there is something much more noble and dignified in the love of a man than in that of a boy, and you will feel this on seeing him.”

“in that case, agnes, i shall have to fall in love with him over again, and to fall in love with the same individual twice, will certainly be rather a novel case—a double passion, at least, you will grant, agnes.”

“but he will experience sensations quite as singular on seeing you, when he returns. you are as much changed—improved i mean—in your person, as he can be for his life. if he is now a fine, full-grown young man, you are a tall, elegant—i don’t, want to flatter you, jane,—i need not say graceful, for that you always were, but i may add with truth, a majestic young woman. why, you will scarcely know each other.”

“you do flatter me, agnes; but am i so much improved?”

“indeed you are quite a different girl from what you were when he saw you.”

“i am glad of it; but as i told him once, it is on his account that i am so glad; do you know, agnes, i never was vain of my beauty until i saw charles?”

“did you ever feel proud in being beautiful in the eyes of another, jane?”

“no, i never did—why should i?”

“well, that is not vanity—it is only love visible in a different aspect, and not the least amiable either, my dear.”

“well, i should be much more melancholy than i am, were not my fancy so often engaged in picturing to myself the change which may be on him when he returns. the feeling it occasions is novel and agreeable, sometimes, indeed, delightful, and so far sustains me when i am inclined to be gloomy. but believe me, agnes, i could love charles osborne even if he were not handsome. i could love him for his mind, his principles, and especially for his faithful and constant heart.”

“and for all these he would deserve your love; but you remember what you told me once: it seems he has not yet seen a girl that he thinks more handsome than you are. did you not mention to me that he said when he did, he would cease to write to you and cease to love you? you see he is constant.”

“yes; but did i not tell you the sense in which he meant it?”

“yes; and now you throw a glance at yourself in the glass! oh jane, jane, the best of us and the freest from imperfection is not without a little pride and vanity; but don’t be too confident, my saucy beauty; consider that you complained to william yesterday, about the unusual length of time that has elapsed since you received his last letter, and yet he could, write to his fa—— what, what, dear girl, what’s the matter? you are as pale as death.”

“because, agnes, i never think of that but my heart and spirits sink. it has been one of the secret causes of my occasional depressions ever since he went. i cannot tell why, but from the moment the words were spoken, i have not been without a presentiment of evil.”

“even upon your own showing, jane, that is an idle and groundless impression, and unworthy the affection which you know, and which we all know he bears you; dismiss it, dear jane, dismiss it, and do not give yourself the habit of creating imaginary evils.”

“i know i am prone to such a habit, and am probably too much of a visionary for my own happiness; but setting that gloomy presentiment aside, have you not, agnes, been struck with several hints in his letters, both to me and his father, unfavorable to the state of his health.”

“that you will allow, could not be very ill, when he was able to continue his travels.”

“true, but according to his own admission his arrangements were frequently broken up, by the fact of his being ‘unwell,’ and ‘not in a condition to travel,’ and so did not reach the places in time to which he had requested me to direct many of my letters. i fear, agnes, that his health has not been so much improved by the air of the continent as we hoped it would.”

“i have only to say this, jane, that if he does not appreciate your affection as he ought to do, then god forgive him. he will be guilty of a crime against the purest attachment of the best of hearts, as well as against truth and honor. i hope he may be worthy of you, and i am sure he will. he is now in bath, however, and will soon be with us.”

“i am divided, agnes, by two principles—if they may be called such—or if you will, by two moods of mind, or states of feeling; one of them is faith and trust in his affection—how can i doubt it?—the other is malady, i believe, a gloom, an occasional despondency for which i cannot account, and which i am not able to shake off. my faith and trust, however, will last, and his return will dispel the other.”

this, in fact, was the true state of the faithful girl’s heart. from the moment osborne went to travel, her affection, though full of the tenderest enthusiasm, lay under the deep shadow of that gloom, which was occasioned by the first, and we may say the only act of insincerity she was ever guilty of towards her father. the reader knows that even this act was not a deliberate one, but merely the hurried evasion of a young and bashful girl, who, had her sense of moral delicacy been less acute, might have never bestowed a moment’s subsequent consideration upon it. let our fair young readers, however, be warned even by this very slight deviation from truth, and let them also remember that one act of dissimulation may, in the little world of their own moral sentiments and affections, lay the foundation for calamities under which their hopes and their happiness in consequence of that act may absolutely perish. still are we bound to say that jane’s deportment during the period, stipulated upon for osborne’s absence was admirably decorous, and replete with moral beauty. her moments of enjoyment derived from his letters, were fraught with an innocent simplicity of delight in fine keeping with a heart so fall of youthful fervor and attachment. and when her imagination became occasionally darkened by that gloom which she termed her malady, nothing could be more impressive than the tone of deep and touching piety which mingled with and elevated her melancholy into a cheerful solemnity of spirit, that swayed by its pensive dignity the habits and affections of her whole family.

‘tis true she was one of a class rarely to be found amoung even the highest of her own sex, and her attachment was consequently that of a heart utterly incapable of loving twice. her first affection was too steadfast and decisive ever to be changed, and at the same time too full and unreserved to maintain the materials for a second passion. the impression she received was too deep ever to be erased. she might weep—she might mourn—she might sink—her soul might be bowed down to the dust—her heart might break—she might die—but she never, never, could love again. that heart was his palace, where the monarch of her affections reigned—but remove his throne, and it became the sepulchre of her own hopes—the ruin, haunted by the moping brood of her own sorrows. often, indeed, did her family wonder at the freshness of memory manifested in the character of her love for osborne. there was nothing transient, nothing forgotten, nothing perishable in her devotion to him. in truth, it had something of divinity in it. every thing past, and much also of the future was present to her. osborne breathed and lived at the expiration of two years, just as he had done the day before he set out on his travels. in her heart he existed as an undying principle, and the duration of her love for him seemed likely to be limited only by those laws of nature, which, in the course of time, carry the heart beyond the memory of all human affections.

it would, indeed, be almost impossible to see a creature so lovely and angelic as was our heroine, about the period when osborne was expected to return. retaining all the graceful elasticity of motion that characterized her when first introduced to our readers, she was now taller and more majestic in her person, rounder and with more symmetry in her figure, and also more conspicuous for the singular ease and harmony of her general deportment. her hair, too, now grown to greater luxuriance, had become several shades deeper, and, of course, was much more rich than when charles saw it last. but if there was any thing that, more than another, gave an expression of tenderness to her beauty, it was the under-tone of color—the slightly perceptible paleness which marked her complexion as that of a person whose heart though young had already been made acquainted with some early sorrow.

had her lover then seen her, and witnessed the growth of charms that had taken place during his absence, he and she might both, alas, have experienced another and a kinder destiny.

the time at length arrived when charles, as had been settled upon by both their parents, was expected to return. during the three months previous he had been at bath, accompanied of course by his friend and tutor. up until a short time previous to his arrival there, his communications to his parents and to jane were not only punctual and regular, but remarkable for the earnest spirit of dutiful affection and fervid attachment which they breathed to both. it is true that his father had, during the whole period of his absence, been cognizant of that which the vigilance of jane’s love for him only suspected—i allude to the state of his health, which it seems occasionally betrayed symptoms of his hereditary complaint.

this gave mr. osborne deep concern, for he had hoped that so long a residence in more genial climates would have gradually removed from his son’s constitution that tendency to decline which was so much dreaded by them all. still he was gratified to hear, that with the exception of those slight recurrences, the boy grew fast and otherwise with a healthy energy into manhood. the principles he had set out with were unimpaired by the influence of continental profligacy. his mind was enlarged, his knowledge greatly extended, and his taste and manners polished to a degree so unusual, that he soon became the ornament of every circle in which he moved. his talents, now ripe and cultivated, were not only of a high, but also of a striking and brilliant character—much too commanding and powerful, as every one said, to be permitted to sink into the obscurity of private life.

this language was not without its due impression on young osborne’s mind; for his tutor could observe that soon after his return to england he began to have fits of musing, and was often abstracted, if not absolutely gloomy. he could also perceive a disinclination to write home, for which he felt it impossible to account. at first he attributed this to ill health, or to those natural depressions which frequently precede or accompany it; but at length on seeing his habitual absences increase, he inquired in a tone of friendly sympathy, too sincere to be doubted, why it was that a change so unusual had become so remarkably visible in his spirits.

“i knew not,” replied osborne, “that it was so; i myself have not observed what you speak of.”

“your manner, indeed, is much changed,” said his friend; “you appear to me, and i dare say to others, very like a man whose mind is engaged upon the consideration of some subject that is deeply painful to him, and of which he knows not how to dispose. if it be so, my dear osborne, command my advice, my sympathy, my friendship.”

“i assure you, my dear friend, i was perfectly unconscious of this. but that i have for some time past been thinking—more seriously than usual of the position in society which i ought to select, i grant you. you are pleased to flatter me with the possession of talents that you say might enable any man to reach a commanding station in public life. now, for what purpose are talents given? or am i justified in sinking away into obscurity when i might create my own fortune, perhaps my own rank, by rendering some of the noblest services to my country. that wish to leave behind one a name that cannot die, is indeed a splendid ambition!”

“i thought,” replied the other, “that you had already embraced views of a different character, entered into by your father to promote your-own happiness.”

osborne started, blushed, and for more than half a minute returned no answer. “true,” said he at last, “true, i had forgotten that.”

his tutor immediately perceived that an ambition not unnatural, indeed, to a young man possessing such fine talents, had strongly seized upon his heart, and knowing as he did his attachment to jane, he would have advised his immediate return home, had it not been already determined on, in consequence of medical advice, that he himself should visit bath for the benefit of his health, and his pupil could by no arguments be dissuaded from accompanying him.

this brief view of osborne’s intentions, at the close of the period agreed on for his return, was necessary to explain an observation made by agnes in the last dialogue which we have given between herself and her younger sister. we allude to the complaint which she playfully charged jane with having made to her brother concerning the length of time which had elapsed since she last heard from her lover. the truth is, that with the exception of jane herself, both families were even then deeply troubled in consequence of a letter directed by charles’s tutor to mr. osborne. that letter was the last which the amiable gentleman ever wrote, for he had not been in bath above a week when he sank suddenly under a disease of the heart, to which he had for some years been subject. his death, which distressed young osborne very much, enabled him, however, to plead the necessity of attending to his friend’s obsequies, in reply to his father’s call on him to return to his family. the next letter stated that he would not lose a moment in complying with his wishes, as no motive existed to detain him from home, and the third expressed the uncommon benefit which he had, during his brief residence there, experienced from the use of the waters. against this last argument the father had nothing to urge. his son’s health was to him a consideration paramount to every other, and when he found himself improved either by the air or waters of bath, he should not hurry his return as he had intended. “only write to your friends,” said he, “they are as anxious for the perfect establishment of your health as i am.”

this latter correspondence between mr. osborne and his son, was submitted to mr. sinclair, that it might be mentioned to serve as an apology for charles’s delay in replying to her last letter. this step was suggested by mr. sinclair himself, who dreaded the consequences which any appearance of neglect might have upon a heart so liable to droop as that of his gentle daughter. jane, who was easily depressed, but not suspicious, smiled at the simplicity of her papa, as she said, in deeming it necessary to make any apology for charles osborne’s not writing to her by return of post.

“it will be time enough,” she added, “when his letters get cool, and come but seldom, to make excuses for him. surely, my dear papa, if any one blamed him, i myself would be, and ought to be the first to defend him.”

“yet,” observed william, “you could complain to me about his letting a letter of yours stand over a fortnight before he answered it. jane—jane—there’s no knowing you girls; particularly when you’re in love; but, indeed, then you don’t know yourselves, so how should we?”

“but, papa,” she added, looking earnestly upon him; “it is rather strange that you are so anxious to apologize for charles. i cannot question my papa, and i shall not; but yet upon second thoughts, it is very strange.”

“no, my love, but i would not have you a day uneasy.”

“well,” she replied, musing—but with a keen eye bent alternately upon him and william; “it is a simple case, i myself have a very ready solution for his want of punctuality, if it can be called such, or if it continue such.”

“and pray what is it, jane,” asked william.

“excuse me, dear william—if i told you it might reach him, and then he might shape his conduct to meet it—i may mention it some day, though; but i hope there will never be occasion. papa, don’t you ask me, because if you do, i shall feel it my duty to tell you; and i would rather not, sir, except you press me. but why after all should i make a secret of it. it is, papa, the test of all things, as well as of charles’s punctuality—for, of his affection i will never doubt. it is time—time; but indeed i wish you had not spoken to me about it; i was not uneasy.”

the poor girl judged osborne through a misapprehension which, had she known more i of life, or even reflected upon his neglect in writing to her, would have probably caused her to contemplate his conduct in a different light. she thought because his letters were nearly as frequent since his return to england, as they had been during his tour on the continent, that the test of his respect and attachment was sustained. in fact, she was ignorant that he had written several letters of late to his own family, without having addressed to her a single line; or even mentioned her name, and this circumstance was known to them all, with the exception of herself, as was the tutor’s previous letter, of which she had never heard.

it was no wonder, therefore, that her father, who was acquainted with this, and entertained such serious apprehensions for his daughter’s state of mind, should feel anxious, that until osborne’s conduct were better understood, no doubt of his sincerity should reach the confiding girl’s heart. the old man, however, unconsciously acted upon his own impressions rather than on jane’s knowledge of what had occurred. in truth, he forgot that the actual state of the matter was unknown to her, and the consequence was, that in attempting to efface an impression that did not exist, he alarmed her suspicion by his mysterious earnestness of manner, and thereby created the very uneasiness he wished to remove.

from this day forward, jane’s eye became studiously vigilant of the looks and motions of the family. her melancholy returned, but i it was softer and serener than it had ever been before; so did the mild but pensive spirit of devotion which had uniformly accompanied it. the sweetness of her manner was irresistible, if not affecting, for there breathed through the composure of her countenance an air of mingled sorrow and patience, so finely blended, that it was difficult to determine, on looking at her, whether she secretly rejoiced or mourned.

a few days more brought another letter from osborne to his father, which contained a proposal for which the latter, in consequence of the tutor’s letter, was not altogether unprepared. it was a case put to the father for the purpose of ascertaining whether, if he, charles, were offered an opportunity of appearing in public life, he would recommend him to accept it. he did not say that such an opening had really presented itself, but he strongly urged his father’s permission to embrace it if it should.

this communication was immediately laid before mr. sinclair, who advised his friend, ere he took any other step, or hazarded an opinion upon it, to require from charles an explicit statement of the motives which induced him to solicit such a sanction. “until we know what he means,” said he, “it is impossible for us to know how to advise him. that he has some ambitious project in view, is certain. mr. harvey’s (his tutor) letter and this both prove it.”

“but in the meantime, we must endeavor to put such silly projects out of his head, my dear friend. i am more troubled about that sweet girl than about any thing else. i cannot understand his neglect of her.”

“few, indeed, are worthy of that angel,” replied her father, sighing; “i hope he may. if charles, after what has passed, sports with her happiness, he will one day have a fearful reckoning of it, unless he permits his conscience to become altogether seared.”

“it cannot, happen,” replied the other; “i know my boy, his heart is noble; no, no, he is incapable of dishonor, much less of perfidy so black as that would be. in my next letter, however, i shall call upon him to explain himself upon that subject, as well as the other, and if he replies by an evasion, i shall instantly command him home.”

they then separated, with a feeling of deep but fatherly concern, one anxious for the honor of his son, and the other trembling for the happiness of his daughter.

mr. sinclair was a man in whose countenance could be read all the various emotions that either exalted or disturbed his heart. if he felt joy his eye became irradiated with benignant lustre, that spoke at once of happiness; and, when depressed by care or sorrow, it was easy to see by the serious composure of his face, that something troubled or disturbed him. indeed, this candor of countenance is peculiar to those only who have not schooled their faces into hypocrisy. after his return from the last interview with mr. osborne, his family perceived at a glance that something more than usually painful lay upon his mind; and such was the affectionate sympathy by which they caught each other’s feelings, that every countenance, save! one, became partially overshadowed. jane, although her eye was the first and quickest! to notice this anxiety of her father, exhibited no visible proof of a penetration so acute and lively. the serene light that beamed so mournfully from her placid but melancholy brow, was not darkened by what she saw; on the contrary, that brow became, if possible, more serene; for in truth, the gentle enthusiast had already formed a settled plan of exalted resignation that was designed to sustain her under an apprehension far different from that which osborne’s ambitious speculations in life would have occasioned her to feel had she known them.

“i see,” said she with a smile, “that my papa has no good news to tell. a letter has come to his father, but none to me; but you need not fear for my firmness, papa. i know from whence to expect support; indeed, from the beginning i knew that i would require it. you often affectionately chid me for entertaining apprehensions too gloomy; but now they are not gloomy, because, if what i surmise be true, charles and i will not be so long separated as you imagine. the hope of this, papa, is my consolation.”

“why, what do you surmise, my love, asked her father.

“that charles is gone, perhaps irretrievably gone in decline; you know it is the hereditary complaint of his family. what else could, or would—yes, papa, or ought to keep him so long from home—from his friends—from me. yes, indeed,” she added with a smile, “from me, papa—from his own jane sinclair, and he so near us, in england, and the time determined on for his return expired.”

“but you know, jane,” said her father, gratified to find that her suspicion took a wrong direction, “the air of bath, he writes, is agreeing with him.”

“i hope it may, papa; i hope it may; but you may rest assured, that whatever happens, the lesson you have taught me, will, aided by divine support, sustain my soul, so long as the frail tenement in which it is lodged may last. that will not be long.”

“true religion, my love, is always cheerful, and loves to contemplate the brighter side of every human event. i do not like to see my dear child so calm, nor her countenance shaded by melancholy so fixed as that i have witnessed on it of late.”

“eternity, papa—a happy eternity, what is it, but the brighter side of human life—here we see only as in a glass darkly; there, in our final destiny, we reach the fulness of our happiness. i am not melancholy, but resigned; and resignation has a peace peculiar to itself; a repose which draws us gently, for a little time, out of the memory of our sorrows; but without refreshing the heart—without refreshing the heart. no, papa, i am not melancholy—i am not melancholy; i could bear charles’s death, and look up to my god for strength and support under it; but,” she added, shaking her head, with a smile marked by something of a wild meaning, “if he could forget me for another,—no i will not say for another, but if he could only forget me, and his vows of undying affection, then indeed—then—then—papa—ha!—no—no—he could not—he could not.”

this conversation, when repeated to the family, deeply distressed them, involved in doubt and uncertainty as they were with respect to osborne’s ultimate intentions. until a reply, however, should be received to his father’s letter, which was written expressly to demand an explanation on that point, they could only soothe the unhappy girl in the patient sorrow which they saw gathering in her heart. that, however, which alarmed them most, was her insuperable disrelish to any thing in the shape of consolation or sympathy. this, to them, was indeed a new trait in the character of one who had heretofore been so anxious to repose the weight of her sufferings upon the bosoms of those who loved her. her chief companion now was ariel, her dove, to which she was seen to address herself with a calm, smiling aspect, not dissimilar to the languid cheerfulness of an invalid, who might be supposed as yet incapable from physical weakness to indulge in a greater display of animal spirits. her walks, too, were now all solitary, with the exception of her mute companion, and it was observed that she never, in a single instance, was known to traverse any spot over which she and osborne had not walked together. here she would linger, and pause, and muse, and address ariel, as if the beautiful creature were capable of comprehending the tenor of her language.

“ariel,” said she one day, speaking to the bird; “there is the yew tree, under which your preserver and i first disclosed our love. the yew tree, sweet bird, is the emblem of death, and so it will happen; for charles is dying, i know—i feel that he will die; and i will die, early; we will both die early; for i would not be able to live here after him, ariel, and how could i? yet i should like to see him once—once before he dies; to see him, ariel, in the fulness of his beauty; my eye to rest upon him once more; and then i could die smiling.”

she then sat down under the tree, and in a voice replete with exquisite pathos and melody sang the plaintive air which osborne had played on the evening when the first rapturous declaration of their passion was made. this incident with the bird also occurred much about the same hour of the day, a remembrance which an association, uniformly painful to her moral sense, now revived with peculiar power, for she started and became pale. “my sweet bird,” she exclaimed, “what is this; i shall be absent from evening worship again—but i will not prevaricate now; why—why is this spot to be fatal to me? come, ariel, come: perhaps i may not be late.”

she hastened home with a palpitating heart, and unhappily arrived only in time to find the family rising from prayer.

as she stood and looked upon them, she smiled, but a sudden paleness at the same instant overspread her face, which gave to her smile an expression we are utterly incompetent to describe.

“i am late,” she exclaimed, “and have neglected a solemn and a necessary duty. to me, to me, papa, how necessary is that duty.”

“it is equally so to us all, my child,” replied her father; “but,” he added, in order to reconcile her to an omission which had occasioned her to suffer so much pain before, “we did not forget to pray for you, jane. with respect to your absence, we know it was unintentional. your mind is troubled, my love, and do not, let me beg of you, dwell upon minor points of that kind, so as to interrupt the singleness of heart with which you ought to address god. you know, darling, you can pray in your own room.”

she mused for some minutes, and at length said, “i would be glad to preserve that singleness of heart, but i fear i will not be able to do so long.”

“if you would stay more with us, darling,” observed her mamma, “and talk and chat more with maria and agnes, as you used to do, you would find your spirits improved. you are not so cheerful as we would wish to see you.”

“perhaps i ought to do that, mamma; indeed i know i ought, because you wish it.”

“we all wish it,” said agnes, “jane dear, why keep aloof from us? who in the world loves you as we do; and why would you not, as you used to do, allow us to cheer you, to support you, or to mourn and weep with you; anything—anything,” said the admirable girl, “rather than keep your heart from ours;” and as she spoke, the tears fell fast down her cheeks.

“dear agnes,” said jane, putting her arm about her sister’s neck, and looking up mournfully into her face; “i cannot weep for myself—i cannot weep even with you; you know i love you—how i love you—oh, how i love you all; but i cannot tell why it is—society, even the society of them i love best, disturbs me, and you know not the pleasure—melancholy i grant it to be, but you know not the pleasure that comes to me from solitude. to me—to me there is a charm in it ten times more soothing to my heart than all the power of human consolation.”

“but why so melancholy at all, jane,” said maria, “surely there is no just cause for it.”

she smiled as she replied, “why am i melancholy, maria?—why? why should i not? do i not read the approaching death of charles osborne in the gloom of every countenance about me? why do you whisper to each other that which you will not let me hear? why is there a secret and anxious, and a mysterious intercourse between this family and his, of the purport of which i am kept ignorant—and i alone?”

“but suppose charles osborne is not sick,” said william; “suppose he was never in better health than he is at this moment—” he saw his father’s hand raised, and paused, then added, carelessly, “for supposition’s sake i say merely.”

“but you must not suppose that, william,” she replied, starting, “unless you wish to blight your sister. on what an alternative then, would you force a breaking heart. if not sick, if not dying, where is he? i require him—i demand him. my heart,” she proceeded, rising up and speaking with vehemence—“my heart calls for him—shouts aloud in its agony—shouts aloud—shouts aloud for him. he is, he is sick; the malady of his family is upon him; he is ill—he is dying; it must be so; ay, and it shall be so; i can bear that, i can bear him to die, but never to become faithless to a heart like mine. but i am foolish,” she added, after a pause, occasioned by exhaustion; “oh, my dear william, why, by idle talk, thus tamper with your poor affectionate sister’s happiness? i know you meant no harm, but oh, william, william, do it no more.”

“i only put it, dear jane, i only put it as a mere case,”—the young man was evidently cut to the heart, and could not for some moments speak.

she saw his distress, and going over to him, took his hand and. said, “don’t, william, don’t; it is nothing but merely one of your good-humored attempts to make your sister cheerful. there,” she added, kissing his cheek; “there is a kiss for you; the kiss of peace let it be, and forgiveness; but i have nothing to forgive you for, except too much affection for an unhappy sister, who, i believe, is likely to be troublesome enough to you all; but, perhaps not long—not long.”

there were few dry eyes in the room, as she uttered the last words.

“i do not like to see you weep,” she added, “when i could have wept myself, and partaken of your tears, it was rather a relief to me than otherwise. it seems, however, that my weeping days are past; do not, oh do not—you trouble me, and i want to compose my mind for a performance of the solemn act which i have this evening neglected. mamma, kiss me, and pray for me; i love you well and tenderly, mamma; i am sure you know i do.”

the sorrowing mother caught her to her bosom, and, after kissing her passive lips, burst out into a sobbing fit of grief.

“oh, my daughter, my daughter,” she exclaimed, still clasping her to her heart, “and is it come to this! oh, that we had never seen him!”

“this, my dear,” said mr. sinclair to his wife, “is wrong; indeed, it is weakness; you know she wants to compose her mind for prayer.”

“i do, papa; they must be more firm; i need to pray. i know my frailties, you know them too, sir; i concealed them from you as long as i could, but their burden was too heavy for my heart; bless me now, before i go; i will kneel.”

the sweet girl knelt beside him, and he placed his hand upon her stooping head, and blessed her. she then raised herself, and looking up to him with a singular expression of wild sweetness beaming in her eyes, she said, leaning her head again upon his breast,

“there are two bosoms, on which, i trust, i and my frailties can repose with hope; i know i shall soon pass from the one to the other—

“the bosom of my father and my god, will not they be sweet, papa?”

she spoke thus with a smile of such unutterable sweetness, her beautiful eyes gazing innocently up into her father’s countenance, that the heart of the old man was shaken through every fibre. he saw, however, what must be encountered, and was resolved to act a part worthy of the religion he professed. he arose, and taking her hand in his, said, “you wish to pray, dearest love; that is right; your head has been upon my bosom, and i blessed you; go now, and, with a fervent heart, address yourself to the throne of grace; in doing this, my sweet child, piously and earnestly, you will pass from my bosom to the bosom of your god. cast yourself upon him, my love; above all things, cast yourself with humble hope and earnest supplication upon his. this, my child, indeed is sweet; and you will find it so; come, darling, come.”

he led her out of the room, and after a few words more of affectionate advice, left her to that solitude for which he hoped the frame of mind in which she then appeared was suitable.

“her sense of religion,” he said, after returning to the family, “is not only delicate, but deep; her piety is fervent and profound. i do not therefore despair but religion will carry her through whatever disappointment charles’s flighty enthusiasm may occasion her.”

“i wish, papa,” said agnes, “i could think so. as she herself said, she might bear his death, for that would involve no act of treachery, of falsehood on his part; but to find that he is capable of forgetting their betrothed vows, sanctioned as they were by the parents of both—indeed, papa, if such a thing happen——”

“i should think it will not,” observed her mother; “charles has, as you have just said, enthusiasm; now, will not that give an impulse to his love, as well as to his ambition?”

“but if ambition, my dear, has become the predominant principle in his character, it will draw to its own support all that nourished his other passions. love is never strong where ambition exists—nor ambition where there is love.”

“i cannot entertain the thought of charles osborne being false to her,” said maria; “his passion for her was more like idolatry than love.”

“he is neglecting her, though,” said william; “and did she not suppose that that is caused by illness, i fear she would not bear it even as she does.”

“i agree with you, william,” observed agnes; “but after all, it is better to have patience until mr. osborne hears from him. his reply will surely be decisive as to his intentions. all may end better than we think.”

until this reply should arrive, however, they were compelled to remain in that state of suspense which is frequently more painful than the certainty of evil itself. jane’s mind and health were tended with all the care and affection which her disinclination to society would permit them to show. they forced themselves to be cheerful in order that she might unconsciously partake of a spirit less gloomy than that which every day darkened more deeply about her path; any attempt to give her direct consolation, however, was found to produce the very consequences which they wished so anxiously to prevent. if for this purpose they entered into conversation with her, no matter in what tone of affectionate sweetness they addressed her, such was the irresistible pathos of her language, that their hearts became melted, and, instead of being able to comfort the beloved mourner, they absolutely required sympathy themselves. since their last dialogue, too, it was evident from her manner that some fresh source of pain had been on that occasion opened in her heart. for nearly a week afterwards her eye was fixed from time to time upon her brother william, with a long gaze of hesitation and enquiry—not unmingled with a character of suspicion that appeared still further, to sink her spirits by a superadded weight of misery.

nearly a fortnight had now elapsed since charles osborne ought to have received his father’s letter, and yet no communication had reached either of the families. indeed the gradual falling off of his correspondence with jane, and the commonplace character of his few last letters left little room to hope that his affection for her stood the severe test of time and absence. one morning about this period she brought william into the garden, and after a turn or too, laid her hand, gently upon his arm, saying,

“william, i have a secret to entrust you with.”

“a secret, jane—well, i will keep it honorably—what is it, dear?”

“i am very unhappy.”

“surely that’s no secret to me, my pool girl.”

she shook her head.

“no, no; that’s not it; but this is—i strongly suspect that you all know more about charles than i do.”

she fixed her eyes with an earnest penetration on him as she spoke.

“he is expected home soon, jane.”

“he is not ill, william; and you have all permitted me to deceive myself into a belief that he is; because you felt that i would rather ten thousand times that he were dead than false—than false.”

“he could not, he dare not be false to you, my dear, after having been solemnly betrothed to you, i may say with the consent of your father and his.”

“dare not—ha—there is meaning in that, william; your complexion is heightened, too; and so i have found out your secret, my brother. sunk as is my heart, you see i have greater penetration than you dream of. so he is not sick, but false; and his love for me is gone like a dream. well, well; but yet i have laid down my own plan of resignation. you would not guess what it is? come, guess; i will hear nothing further till you guess.”

he thought it was better to humor her, and replied in accordance with the hope of i his father.

“religion, my dear jane, and reliance on god.”

“that was my first plan; that was my plan in case the malady i suspected had taken him from me—but what is my plan for his falsehood?”

“i cannot guess, dear jane.”

“death, william. what consoler like death? what peace so calm as that of the grave? let the storm of life howl ever so loudly, go but six inches beneath the clay of the church-yard and how still is all there!”

“indeed, jane, you distress yourself without cause; never trust me again if charles will not soon come home, and you and he be happy. why, my dear jane, i thought you had more fortitude than to sink under a calamity that has not yet reached you. surely it will be time enough when you find that charles is false to take it so much to heart as you do.”

“that is a good and excellent advice, my dear william; but listen, and i will give a far better one: never deceive your father; never prevaricate with papa, and then you may rest satisfied that your heart will not be crushed by such a calamity as that which has fallen upon me. i deceived papa; and i am now the poor hopeless cast-away that you see me. remember that advice, william—keep it, and god will bless you.”

william would have remonstrated with her at greater length, but he saw that she was resolved to have no further conversation on the subject. when it was closed she walked slowly and composedly out of the garden, and immediately took her way to those favorite places among which she was latterly in the habit of wandering. one of her expressions, however, sunk upon his affectionate heart too deeply to permit him to rest under the fearful apprehension which it generated. after musing for a little he followed her with a pale face and a tearful eye, resolved to draw from her, with as much tenderness as possible, the exact meaning which, in her allusion to osborne’s falsehood, she had applied to death.

he found her sitting upon the bank of the river which we have already described, and exactly opposite to the precise spot in the stream from which osborne had rescued ariel. the bird sat on her shoulder, and he saw by her gesture that she was engaged in an earnest address to it. he came on gently behind her, actuated by that kind curiosity which knows that in such unguarded moments a key may possibly be obtained to the abrupt and capricious impulse by which persons laboring under impressions so variable may be managed.

page 44-- spot which would have been fatal to you

“i will beat you, ariel,” said she, “i will beat you—fie upon you. you an angel of light—no, no—have i not often pointed you out the spot which would have been fatal to you, were it not for him—for him! stupid bird! there it is! do you not see it? no, as i live, your eye is turned up sideways towards me, instead of looking at it, as if you asked why, dear mistress, do you scold me so? and indeed i do not know, ariel. i scarcely know—but oh, my dear creature, if you knew—if you knew—it is well you don’t. i am here—so are you—but where is he?”

she was then silent for a considerable time, and sat with her head on her hand. william could perceive that she sighed deeply.

he advanced; and on hearing his foot she started, looked about, and on seeing him, smiled.

“i am amusing myself, william,” said she.

“how, my dear jane—how?”

“why, by the remembrance of my former misery. you know that the recollection of all past happiness is misery to the miserable—is it not? but of that you are no judge, william—you were never miserable.”

“nor shall you be so, jane, longer than until charles returns; but touching your second plan of resignation, love. i don’t understand how death could be resignation.”

“do you not? then i will tell you. should charles prove false to me—that would break my heart. i should die, and then—then—do you not see—comes death, the consoler.”

“i see, dear sister; but there will be no necessity for that. charles will be, and is, faithful and true to you. will you come home with me, dear jane?”

“at present i cannot, william; i have places to see and things to think of that are pleasant to me. i may almost say so; because as i told you they amuse me. let misery have its mirth, william; the remembrance of past happiness is mine.”

“jane, if you love me come home with me now?”

“if i do. ah, william, that’s ungenerous. you are well aware that i do, and so you use an argument which you know i won’t resist. come,” addressing the dove, “we must go; we are put upon our generosity; for of course we do love poor william. yes, we will go, william; it is better, i believe.”

she then took his arm, and both walked home without speaking another word; jane having relapsed into a pettish silence which her brother felt it impossible to break without creating unnecessary excitement in a mind already too much disturbed.

from this day forward jane’s mind, fragile as it naturally was, appeared to bend at once under the double burden of osborne’s approaching death, and his apprehended treachery; for wherever the heart is found to choose between two contingent evils, it is also by the very constitution of our nature compelled to bear the penalty of both, until its gloomy choice is made. at present jane was not certain whether osborne’s absence and neglect were occasioned by ill health or faithlessness; and until she knew this the double dread fell, as we said, with proportionate misery upon her spirit.

bitterly, indeed, did william regret the words in which he desired her “to suppose that charles osborne was not sick.” mr. sinclair himself saw the error, but unhappily too late to prevent the suspicion from entering into an imagination already overwrought and disordered.

hitherto, however, it was difficult, if not impossible, out of her own family, to notice in her manner or conversation the workings of a mind partially unsettled by a passion which her constitutional melancholy darkened by its own gloomy creations. to strangers she talked rationally, and with her usual grace and perspicuity, but every one observed that her cheerfulness was gone, and the current report went, by whatever means it got abroad, that jane sinclair’s heart was broken—that charles osborne proved faithless—and that the beautiful fawn of springvale was subject to occasional derangement.

in the meantime osborne was silent both to his father and to her, and as time advanced the mood of her mind became too seriously unhappy and alarming to justify any further patience on the part either of his family or mr. sinclair’s. it was consequently settled that mr. osborne should set out for bath, and compel his son’s return, under the hope that a timely interview might restore the deserted girl to a better state of mind, and reproduce in his heart that affection which appeared to have either slumbered or died. with a brow of care the excellent man departed, for in addition to the concern which he felt for the calamity of jane sinclair and charles’s honor, he also experienced all the anxiety natural to an affectionate father, ignorant of the situation in which he might find an only son, who up to that period had been, and justly too, inexpressibly dear to him.

his absence, however, was soon discovered by jane, who now began to give many proofs of that address with which unsettled persons can manage to gain a point or extract a secret, when either in their own opinion is considered essential to their gratification. every member of her own family now became subjected to her vigilance; every word they spoke was heard with suspicion, and received as if it possessed a double meaning. on more than one occasion she was caught in the attitude of a listener, and frequently placed herself in such a position when sitting with her relations at home, as enabled her to watch their motions in the glass, when they supposed her engaged in some melancholy abstraction.

yet bitter, bitter as all this must have been to their hearts, it was singular to mark, that as the light of her reason receded, a new and solemn feeling of reverence was added to all of love, and sorrow, and pity, that they had hitherto experienced towards her. now, too, was her sway over them more commanding, though exercised only in the woeful meekness of a broken heart; for, indeed, there is in the darkness of unmerited affliction, a spirit which elevates its object, and makes unsuffering nature humble in its presence. who is there that has a heart, and few, alas, have, that does not feel himself constrained to bend his head with reverence before those who move in the majesty of undeserved sorrow?

mr. osborne had not been many days gone, when jane, one morning after breakfast, desired the family not to separate for about an hour, or if they did, to certainly reassemble within that period. “and in the meantime,” she said, addressing agnes, “i want you, my dear agnes, to assist me at my toilette, as they say. i am about to dress in my very best, and it cannot, you know, be from vanity, for i have no one now to gratify but yourselves—come.”

mr. sinclair beckoned with his hand to agnes to attend her, and they accordingly left the room together.

“what is the reason, agnes,” she said, “that there is so much mystery in this family? i do not like these nods, and beckonings, and gestures, all so full of meaning. it grieves me to see my papa, who is the very soul of truth and candor, have recourse to them. but, alas, why should i blame any of you, when i know that it is from an excess of indulgence to poor jane, and to avoid giving her pain that you do it?”

“well, we will not do it any more, love, if it pains or is disagreeable to you.”

“it confounds me, agnes, it injures my head, and sometimes makes me scarcely know where i am, or who are about me. i begin to think that there’s some dreadful secret among you; and i think of coffins, and deaths, or of marriages, and wedding favors, and all that. now, i can’t bear to think of marriages, but death has something consoling in it; give me death the consoler: yet,” she added, musing, “we shall not die, but we shall all be changed.”

“jane, love, may i ask you why you are dressing with such care?”

“when we go down stairs i shall tell you. it’s wonderful, wonderful!”

“what is, dear?”

“my fortitude. but those words were prophetic. i remember well what i felt when i heard them; to be sure he placed them in a different light from what i at first understood them in; but i am handsomer now, i think. you will be a witness for me below, agnes, will you not?”

“to be sure, darling.”

“agnes, where are my tears gone of late? i think i ought to advertise for them, or advertise for others, ‘wanted for unhappy jane sinclair’”—

agnes could bear no more. “jane,” she exclaimed, clasping her in her arms, and kissing her smiling lips, for she smiled while uttering the last words, “oh, jane, don’t, don’t, my darling, or you will break my heart—your own agnes’s heart, whom you loved so well, and whose happiness or misery is bound i up in yours.”

“for unhappy jane sinclair!—no i won’t distress you, dear agnes; let the advertisement go; here, i will kiss you, love, and dry your tears, and then when i am dressed you shall know all.”

she took up her own handkerchief as she spoke, and after having again kissed her sister, wiped her cheeks and dried her eyes with childlike tenderness and affection. she then, looked sorrowfully upon agnes, and said—“oh, agnes, agnes, but my heart is heavy—heavy!”

agnes’s tears were again beginning to flow, but jane once more kissed her, and hastily wiping her eyes, exclaimed in that sweet, low voice with which we address children, “hush, hush, agnes, do not cry, i will not make you sorry any more.”

she then went on to dress herself, but uttered not another word until she and agnes met the family below stairs.

“i am now come, papa and mamma, and william, and my darling maria—but, maria, listen,—i won’t have a tear, and you, agnes,—i am come now to tell you a secret.”

“and, dearest life,” said her mother, “what is it?”

“what made them call me the fawn of springvale?”

“for your gentleness, love,” said mr. sinclair.

“and for your beauty, darling,” added her mother.

“papa has it,” she replied quickly; “for my gentleness, for my gentleness. my beauty, mamma, i am not beautiful.”

while uttering these words, she approached the looking-glass, and surveyed herself with a smile of irony that seemed to disclaim her own assertion. but it was easy to perceive that the irony was directed to some one not then present, and that it was also associated with the memory of something painful to her in an extreme degree.

not beautiful! never did mortal form gifted with beauty approaching nearer to our conception of the divine or angelic, stand smiling in the consciousness of its own charms before a mirror.

“now,” she proceeded, “i am going to make everything quite plain. i never told you this before, but it is time i should now. listen—charles osborne bound himself by a curse, that if he met, during his absence, a girl more beautiful than i am—or than i was then, i should say,—he would cease to write to me—he would cease to love me. now, here’s my secret,—he has found a girl more beautiful than i am,—than i was then, i, mean,—for he has ceased to write to me—and of course he has ceased to love me. so mamma, i am not beautiful, and the fawn of springvale—his own jane sinclair is forgotten.”

she sat down and hung her head for some minutes, and the family, thinking that she either wept or was about to weep, did not think it right to address her. she rose up, however, and said:

“agnes is my witness: did not you, agnes, say that i am now much handsomer than when charles saw me last?”

“i did, darling, and i do.”

“very well, mamma—perhaps you will find me beautiful yet. now the case is this, and i will be guided by my papa. let me see—charles may have seen a girl more beautiful than i was then,—but how does he know whether she is more beautiful than i am now?”

it was—it was woful to see a creature of such unparalleled grace and loveliness working out the calculations of insanity, in order to sustain a broken heart.

“but then,” she added, still smiling in conscious beauty, “why does he not come to see me now? why does he not come?” after musing again for some time, she dropped on her knees in one of those rapid transitions of feeling peculiar to persons of her unhappy class; and joining her hands, looked up to agnes with a countenance utterly and indescribably mournful, exclaiming as she did it, in the same words as before:—

“oh agnes, agnes, but my heart is heavy!”

she then laid down her head on her sister’s knees, and for a long time mused and murmured to herself, as if her mind was busily engaged on some topic full of grief and misery. this was evident by the depth of her sighs, which shook her whole frame, and heaved with convulsive quiverings through her bosom. having remained in this posture about ten minutes, she arose, and without speaking, or noticing any of the family, went out and sauntered with slow and melancholy steps about the place where she loved to walk.

mr. sinclair’s family at this period, and indeed, for a considerable time past were placed, with reference to their unhappy daughter in circumstances of peculiar distress. their utter ignorance of osborne’s designs put it out of their power to adopt any particular mode of treatment in jane’s case. they could neither give her hope, nor prepare her mind for disappointment; but were forced to look passively on, though with hearts wrung into agony, whilst her miserable malady every day gained new strength in its progress of desolation. the crisis was near at hand, however, that was to terminate their suspense. a letter from mr. osborne arrived, in which he informed them that charles had left bath, for london, in company with a family of rank, a few days before he reached it. he mentioned the name of the baronet, whose beautiful daughter, possessing an ample fortune, at her own disposal, fame reported to have been smitten with his son’s singular beauty and accomplishments. it was also said, he added, that the lady had prevailed on her father to sanction young osborne’s addresses to her, and that the baronet, who was a strong political partizan, calculating upon his preeminent talents, intended to bring him into parliament, in order to strengthen his party. he added that he himself was then starting for london, to pursue his son, and rescue him from an act which would stamp his name with utter baseness and dishonor.

this communication, so terrible in its import to a family of such worth and virtue, was read to them by mr. sinclair, during one of those solitary rambles which jane was in the habit of taking every day.

“now, my children,” said the white-haired father, summoning all the fortitude of a christian man to his aid,—“now must we show ourselves not ignorant of those resources which the religion of christ opens to all who are for his wise purposes grievously and heavily afflicted. let us act as becomes the dignity of our faith. we must suffer: let it be with patience, and a will resigned to that which laid the calamity upon us,—and principally upon the beloved mourner who is dear, dear—and oh! how justly is she dear to all our hearts! be firm, my children—and neither speak, nor look, nor act as if these heavy tidings had reached us. this is not only our duty, but our wisest course under circumstances so distressing as ours. another letter from mr. osborne will decide all and until then we must suffer in silent reliance upon the mercy of god. it may, however, be a consolation to you all to know, that if this young man’s heart be detached from that of our innocent and loving child, i would rather—the disposing will of god being still allowed—see her wrapped in the cerements of death than united to one, who with so little scruple can trample upon the sanctions of religion, or tamper with the happiness of a fellow-creature. oh, may god of his mercy sustain our child, and bear her in his own right hand through this heavy woe!”

this affecting admonition did not fall upon them in vain,—for until the receipt of mr, osborne’s letter from london, not even jane, with all her vigilance, was able to detect in their looks or manner any change or expression beyond what she had usually noticed. that letter at length arrived, and, as they had expected, filled up the measure of osborne’s dishonor and their affliction. the contents were brief but fearful. mr. osborne stated that he arrived in london on the second day after his son’s marriage, and found, to his unutterable distress, that he and his fashionable wife had departed for the continent on the very day the ceremony took place.

“i could not,” proceeded his father, “wrench my heart so suddenly out of the strong affection it felt for the hope of my past life, as to curse him; but, from this day forward i disown him as my son. you know not, my friend, what i feel, and what i suffer; for he who was the pride of my declining years has, by this act of unprincipled ambition, set his seal to the unhappiness of his father. i am told, indeed, that the lady is very beautiful—and amiable as she is beautiful—and that their passion for each other amounts to idolatry;—but neither her beauty, nor her wealth, nor her goodness could justify my son in an act of such cruel and abandoned perfidy to a creature who seems to be more nearly related to the angelic nature than the human.”

“you see, my children,” observed mr. sinclair, “that the worst, as far as relates to osborne, is before us. i have nothing now to add to what i have already said on the receipt of the letter from bath. you know your duty, and with god’s assistance i trust you will act up to it. at present it might be fatal to our child were she to know what has happened; nor, indeed, are we qualified to break the matter to her, without the advice of some medical man, eminent in cases similar to that which afflicts her.”

these observations were scarcely concluded when jane entered the room, and as usual, cast a calm but searching glance around her. she saw that they had been in tears, and that they tried in vain to force their faces i into a hurried composure, that seemed strangely at variance with what they felt.

after a slight pause she sat down, and putting her hand to her temple, mused for some minutes. they observed that a sorrow more deep and settled than usual, was expressed on her countenance. her eyes were filled, although tears did not come, and the muscles of her lips quivered excessively; yet she did not speak; and such was the solemnity of the moment to them, who knew all, that none of them could find voice sufficiently firm to address her.

“papa,” said she, at length, “this has been a day of busy thought with me. i think i see, and i am sure i feel my own situation. the only danger is, that i may feel it too much. i fear i have felt it—(she put her hand to her forehead as she spoke)—i fear i have felt it too deeply already. pauses—lapses, or perhaps want of memory for a certain space, occasioned by—by———” she hesitated. “bear with me, papa, and mamma; bear with me; for this is a great effort; let me recollect myself, and do not question me or—speak to me until i———. it is, it is woeful to see me reduced to this; but nothing is seriously wrong with me yet—nothing. let me see; yes, yes, papa, here it is. let us not be reduced to the miserable necessity of watching each other, as we have been. let me know the worst. you have nearly broken me down by suspense. let me know the purport of the letter you received to-day.”

“to-day, love!” exclaimed her mother. “yes, mamma, to-day. i made john show it me on his way from the post-office. the superscription was mr. osborne’s hand. let me, o let me,” she exclaimed, dropping down upon her knees, “as you value my happiness here and hereafter, let me at once know the worst—the very worst. am i not the daughter of a pious minister of the gospel, and do you think i shall or can forget the instructions i received from his lips? treat me as a rational being, if you wish me to remain rational. but o, as you love my happiness here, and my soul’s salvation, do not, papa, do not, mamma, do not, maria, do not, agnes, william,—do not one or all of you keep your unhappy sister hanging in the agony of suspense! it will kill me!—it will kill me!”

suppressed sobs there were, which no firmness could restrain. but in a few moments those precepts of the christian pastor, which we have before mentioned, came forth among this sorrowing family, in the same elevated spirit which dictated them. when jane had concluded this appeal to her father, there was a dead, silence in the room, and every eye glanced from, him to her, full of uncertainty as to what course of conduct he would pursue. he turned his eyes upwards for a few moments, and said:

“can truth, my children, under any circumstances, be injurious to——”

“oh no, no, papa,” exclaimed jane; “i know—i feel the penalty paid for even the indirect violation of it.”

“in the name of god, then,” exclaimed the well-meaning man, “we will rely upon the good sense and religious principle of our dear jane, and tell her the whole truth.”

“henry, dear!” said mrs. sinclair in a tone of expostulation.

“oh papa,” said agnes, “remember your own words!”

“the truth, my papa, the truth!” said jane. “you are its accredited messenger.”

“jane,” said he, “is your trust strong in the support of the almighty?”

“i have no other dependence, papa.”

“then,” said he, “this is the truth: charles osborne has been false to you. he has broken his vows;—he is married to another woman. and now, my child, may the god of truth, and peace, and mercy, sustain and console you!”

“and he will, too, my papa!—he will!” she exclaimed, rising up;—“he will! he will!—i—i know—i think i know something. i violated truth, and now truth is my punishment. i violated it to my papa, and now my papa is the medium of that punishment. well, then, there’s a providence proved. but, in the mean time, mamma, what has become of my beauty? it is gone—it is gone—and now for humility and repentance—now for sackcloth and ashes. i am now no longer beautiful!—so off, off go the trappings of vanity!”

she put her hands up to her bosom, and began to tear down her dress with a violence so powerful, that it took william and maria’s strength to prevent her. she became furious. “let me go,” she exclaimed, “let me go; i am bound to a curse; but charles, charles—don’t you see he will be poisoned: he will kiss her lips and be poisoned; poisoned lips for charles, and i too see it!—and mine here with balm upon them, and peace and love! my boy’s lost, and i am lost, and the world has destroyed us.”

she wrought with incredible strength, and attempted still, while speaking, to tear her garments off; put finding herself overpowered, she at length sat down and passed from this state of violence into a mood so helplessly calm, that the family, now in an outcry of grief, with the exception of her father who appeared cool, felt their very hearts shiver at the vacant serenity of her countenance.

her mother went over, and, seizing her husband firmly by the arms, pulled him towards her, and with an ashy face and parched lips, exclaimed, “there, charles—all is now over—our child is an idiot!”

“oh do not blame me,” said the brokenhearted father; “i did it for the best. had i thought—had i thought—but i will speak to her, for i think my voice will reach her heart—you know how she loved me.”

“jane,” said he, approaching her, “jane, my dearest life, will you not speak to your papa?”

she became uneasy again, and, much to their relief, broke silence.

“i am not,” said she, calmly; “it is gone; i was once though—indeed, indeed i was; and it was said so; i was called the fawn of—of—but it seems beauty passes like the flower of the field.”

“darling, speak to me, to your papa.”

“i believe i am old now; an old woman, i suppose. my hair is gray, and i am wrinkled; that’s the reason why they scorn me; well i was once both young and beautiful; but that is past. charles,” said she, catching her father’s hand and looking into it, “you are old, too, i believe. why—why—why, how is this? your hair is long and white. oh, what a change since i knew you last. white hair! long, white, venerable, hair—that’s old age—

“pity old age within whose silver hairs

honor and reverence evermore do lie.”

“thank god, dear henry,” said her mother, “she is not at all events an idiot. children,” said she, “i trust you will remember your father’s advice, and bear this—this——.” but here the heart and strength of the mother herself were overcome, and she was sinking down when her son caught her ere she fell, and carried her out in his arms, accompanied by maria and agnes.

it would be difficult for any pen to paint the distraction of her father, thus placed in a state of divided apprehension between his daughter and his wife.

“oh, my child, my child,” he exclaimed, “perhaps in the midst of this misery, your mother may be dying! may the god of all consolation support you and her! what, oh what will become of us!”

“well, well,” his daughter went on; “life’s a fearful thing that can work such anges; but why may we not as well pass at once from youth to old age as from happiness to misery? here we are both old; ay, and if we are gray it is less with age than affliction—that’s one comfort—i am young enough to be beautiful yet; but age, when it comes prematurely on the youthful, as it often does—thanks to treachery and disappointment, ay, and thanks to a thousand causes which we all know but don’t wish to think of; age, i say, when it comes prematurely on the youthful, is just like a new and unfinished house that is suffered to fall into ruin—desolation, naked, and fresh, and glaring—without the reverence and grandeur of antiquity. yes—yes—yes; but there is another cause; and that must be whispered only to the uttermost depths of silence—of silence; for silence is the voice of god. that word—that word! oh, how i shudder to think of it! and who will pity me when i acknowledge it—there is one—one only—who will mourn for my despair and the fate, foreordained and predestined, of one whom he loved—that is my papa—my papa only—my papa only; for he knows that i am a castaway—-a cast-away!”

these words were uttered with an energy of manner and a fluency of utterance which medical men know to be strongly characteristic of insanity, unless indeed where the malady is silent and moping. the afflicted old man now discovered that his daughter’s mind had, in addition to her disappointment, sunk under the frightful and merciless dogma, which we trust will soon cease to darken and distort the beneficent character of god. indeed it might have been evident to him before that in looking upon herself as a castaway, jane’s sensitive spirit was gradually lapsing into the gloomy horrors of predestination. but this blindness of the father to such a tendency was very natural in a man to whose eye familiarity with the doctrine had removed its deformity. the old man looked upon her countenance with an expression of mute affliction almost verging on despair; for a moment he forgot the situation of his wife and everything but the consequences of a discovery so full of terror and dismay.

“alas, my unhappy child,” he exclaimed, “and is this, too, to be added to your misery and ours? now, indeed, is the cup of our affliction full even to overflowing. o god! who art good and full of mercy,” he added, dropping on his knees under the bitter impulse of the moment, “and who wiliest not the death of a sinner, oh lay not upon her or us a weight of sorrow greater than we can bear. we do not, o lord! for we dare not, desire thee to stay thy hand; but oh, chastise us in mercy, especially her—her—our hearts’ dearest—she was ever the child, of our loves; but now she is also the unhappy child of all our sorrows; the broken idol of affections which we cannot change. enable us, o god, to acquiesce under this mysterious manifestation of thy will, and to receive from thy hand with patience and resignation whatsoever of affliction it pleaseth thee to lay upon us. and touching this stricken one—if it were thy blessed will to—to—but no—oh no—not our will, oh lord, but thine be done!”

it was indeed a beautiful thing to see the sorrow-bound father bowing down his gray locks with humility before the footstool of his god, and forbearing even to murmur under a dispensation so fearfully calamitous to him and his. religion, however, at which the fool and knave may sneer in the moments of convivial riot, is after all the only stay on which the human heart can rest in those severe trials of life which almost every one sooner or later is destined to undergo. the sceptic may indeed triumph in the pride of his intellect or in the hour of his passion; but no matter on what arguments his hollow creed is based, let but the footstep of disease or death approach, and he himself is the first to abandon it and take refuge in those truths which he had hitherto laughed at or maligned. when mr. sinclair arose, his countenance, through all the traces of sorrow which were upon it, beamed with a light which no principle, merely human, could communicate to it. a dim but gentle and holy radiance suffused his whole face, and his heart, for a moment, received the assurance it wanted so much. he experienced a feeling for which language has no terms, or at least none adequate to express its character. it was “that peace of god which passeth all understanding.”

in a few minutes after he had concluded his short but earnest prayer, agnes returned to let him know that her mamma was better and would presently come in to sit with jane, whom she could not permit, she said, to regain out of her sight. jane had been silent for some time, but the extreme brilliancy of her eyes and the energy of her excitement were too obvious to permit any expectation of immediate improvement.

when her mother and maria returned, accompanied also by william, she took no note whatsoever of them, nor indeed did she appear to have an eye for anything external to her own deep but unsettled misery. time after time they spoke to her as before, each earnestly hoping that some favorite expression or familiar tone of voice might impinge, however slightly, upon her reason, or touch some chord of her affections. these tender devices of their love, however, all failed; no corresponding emotion was awakened, and they resolved, without loss of time, to see what course of treatment medical advice recommend them to pursue on her behalf. accordingly william proceeded with a heavy heart to call in the aid of a gentleman who can bear full testimony to the accuracy of our narrative—we allude to that able and eminent practitioner, doctor m’cormick of. belfast, whose powers, of philosophical analysis, and patient investigation are surpassed only by the success of the masterly skill with which he applies them. the moment he left the room for this purpose, jane spoke.

“it will be hard,” she said, “and i need not conceal it, for my very thought has a voice at the footstool of the almighty; the intelligences of other worlds know it; all; the invisible spirits of the universe know it; those that are evil rejoice, and the good would murmur if the fulness of their own happiness permitted them. no—no—i need not conceal it—hearken, therefore—hearken;” and she lowered her voice to a whisper—“the fawn of springvale—jane sinclair—is predestined to eternal misery. she is a cast-away. i may therefore speak and raise my voice to warn; who shall dare,” she added, “who shall dare ever to part from the truth! those—those only who have been foredoomed—like me. oh misery, misery, is there no hope? nothing but despair for one so young, and as they said, so gentle, and so beautiful, alas! alas! death to me now is no consoler!”

she clasped her beautiful hands together as she spoke, and looked with a countenance so full of unutterable woe that no heart could avoid participating in her misery.

“jane, oh darling of all our hearts,” said her weeping mother, “will you not come over and sit beside your mamma—your mamma, my treasure, who feels that she cannot long live to witness what you suffer.”

“the fawn of springvale,” she proceeded, “the gentle fawn of springvale, for it was on the account of my gentleness i was so called, is stricken—the arrow is here—in her poor broken heart; and what did she do, what did the gentle creature do to suffer or to deserve all this misery?”

“true, my sister—too true, too true,” said maria, bursting into an agony of bitter sorrow; “what strange mystery is in the gentle one’s affliction? surely, if there was ever a spotless or a sinless creature on earth, she was and is that creature.”

“beware of murmuring, maria,” said her father; “the purpose, though at present concealed, may yet become sufficiently apparent for us to recognize in it the benignant dispensation of a merciful god. our duty, my dear child, is now to bear, and be resigned. the issues of this sad calamity are with the almighty, and with him let us patiently leave them.”

“had i never disclosed my love,” proceeded jane, “i might have stolen quietly away from them all and laid my cheek on that hardest pillow which giveth the soundest sleep; but would not concealment,” she added, starting; “would not that too have been dissimulation? oh god help me!—it is, it is clear that in any event i was foredoomed!”

agnes, who had watched her sister with an interest too profound to suffer even the grief necessary on such an occasion to take place, now went over, and taking her hand in one of hers, placed the fingers of the other upon her sister’s cheek, thus attempting to fix jane’s eyes upon her own countenance—

“do you not know who it is,” said she, “that is now speaking to you?—look upon me, and tell me do you forget me so soon?”

“who can tell yet,” she proceeded, “who can tell yet—time may retrieve all, and he may return: but the yew tree—i fear—i fear—why, it is an emblem of death; and perhaps death may unite us—yes, and i say he will—he will—he will. does he not feel pity? oh yes, in a thousand, thousand cases he is the friend of the miserable. death the consoler! oh from how many an aching brow does he take away the pain for ever? how many sorrows does he soothe into rest that is never broken!—from how many hearts like mine, does he pluck the arrows that fester in them, and bids them feel pain no more! in his house, that house appointed for all living—what calmness and peace is there? how sweet and tranquil is the bed which he smoothes down for the unhappy; there the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. then give me death the consoler?—death the consoler!”

a sense of relief and wild exultation beamed from her countenance, on uttering the last words, and she rose up and walked about the room wringing her hands, yet smiling at the idea of being relieved by death the consoler! it is not indeed unusual to witness in deranged persons, an unconscious impression of pain and misery, accompanied at the same time by a vague sense of unreal happiness—that is, a happiness which, whilst it balances the latent conviction of their misery does not, however, ultimately remove it. this probably constitutes that pleasure in madness, which, it is said, none but mad persons know.

at length she stood, and, for a long time seemed musing upon various and apparently contrasted topics, for she sometimes smiled as a girl at play, and sometimes relapsed into darkness of mood and pain, and incoherency. but after passing through these rapid changes for many minutes, she suddenly exclaimed in a low but earnest voice, “where is he?”

“where is who, love?” said her mother.

“where is he?—why does he not come?—something more than usual must prevent him, or he would not stay away so long from ‘his own jane sinclair.’ but i forgot; bless me, how feeble my memory is growing! why this is the hour of our appointment, and i will be late unless i hurry—for who could give so gentle and affectionate a being as charles pain?”

she immediately put on her bonnet, and was about to go abroad, when her father, gently laying his hand upon her arm, said, in a kind but admonitory voice, in which was blended a slightly perceptible degree of parental authority—

“my daughter, surely you will not go out—you are unwell.”

she started slightly, paused, and looked as if trying to remember something that she had forgotten. the struggle, however, was vain—her recollection proved too weak for the task it had undertaken. after a moment’s effort, she smiled sweetly in her father’s face, and said—

“you would not have me break my appointment, nor give poor charles pain, and his health, moreover, so delicate. you know he would die rather than give me a moment’s anxiety. die!—see that again—i know not what puts death into my head so often.”

“henry,” said her mother, “it is probably better to let her have her own way for the present—at least until dr. m’cormick arrives. you and agnes can accompany her, perhaps she may be the better for it.”

“i cannot refuse her,” said the old man; “at all events, i agree with you; there can, i think, be no possible harm in allowing her to go. come, agnes, we must, alas! take care of her.”

she then went out, they walking a few paces behind her, and proceeded down the valley which we have already described in the opening of this story, until she came to the spot at the river, where she first met osborne. here she involuntarily stood a moment, and putting her hand to her right shoulder, seemed to miss some object, that was obviously restored to her recollection by an association connected with the place. she shook her head, and sighed several times, and then exclaimed—

“ungrateful bird, does it neglect me too?”

her father pressed agnes’s arm with a sensation of joy, but spoke not lest his voice might disturb her, or break the apparent continuity of her reviving memory. she seemed to think, however, that she delayed here too long, for without taking further notice of anything she hurried on to the spot where the first disclosure of their loves had taken place. on reaching it she looked anxiously and earnestly around the copse or dell in which the yew tree, with its turf seat stood.

page 52-- how is this?--how is this?--he is not here!

“how is this?—how is this?”—she murmured to herself, “he is not here!”

both her father and agnes observed that during the whole course of the unhappy but faithful girl’s love, they never had witnessed such a concentrated expression of utter woe and sorrow as now impressed themselves upon her features.

“he has not come,” said she; “but i can wait—i can wait—it will teach my heart to be patient.”

she then clasped her hands, and sitting down under the shade of the yew tree, mused and murmured to herself alternately, but in such an evident spirit of desolation and despair, as made her father fear that her heart would literally break down under the heavy burden of her misery. when she had sat here nearly an hour, he approached her and gently taking her hand, which felt as cold as marble, said—

“will you not come home, darling? your mamma is anxious you should return to her. come,” and he attempted gently to draw her with him.

“i can wait, i can wait,” she replied, “if he should come and find me gone, he would break his heart—i can wait.”

“oh do not droop, my sweet sister; do not droop so much; all will yet be well,” said agnes, weeping.

“i care for none but him—to me there is only one being in life—all else is a blank; but he will not come, and is it not too much, to try the patience of a heart so fond and faithful.”

“it is not likely he will come to-day,” replied agnes; “something has prevented him; but to-morrow—”

“i will seek him elsewhere,” said jane, rising suddenly; “but is it not singular, and indeed to what strange passes things may come? a young lady seeking her lover!—not over-modest certainly—nay, positively indelicate—fie upon me! why should i thus expose myself? it is unworthy of my father’s daughter, and jane sinclair will not do it.”

she then walked a few paces homewards, but again stopped and earnestly looked in every direction, as if expecting to see the object of her love. long indeed did she linger about a spot so dear to her; and often did she sit down again and rise to go—sometimes wringing her hands in the muteness of sorrow, and sometimes exhibiting a sense of her neglect in terms of pettish and indirect censure against osborne for his delay. it was in one of those capricious moments that she bent her steps homewards; and as she had again to pass that part of the river where the accident occurred to the dove, agnes and her father observed that she instinctively put her hand to her shoulder, and appeared as if disappointed. on this occasion, however, she made no observation whatever, but, much to their satisfaction, mechanically proceeded towards springvale house, which she reached without uttering another word.

until a short time before the arrival of dr. m’cormick, this silence remained unbroken. she sat nearly in the same attitude, evidently pondering on something that excited great pain, as was observable by her frequent startings, and a disposition to look wildly about her, as if with an intention of suddenly speaking. these, however, passed quickly away, and she generally relapsed into her wild and unsettled reveries.

when the doctor arrived, he sat with her in silence for a considerable time—listening to her incoherencies from an anxiety to ascertain, as far as possible, by what she might utter, whether her insanity was likely to be transient or otherwise. the cause of it he had already heard from report generally, and a more exact and circumstantial account on that day from her brother william.

“it is difficult,” he at length said, “to form anything like an exact opinion upon the first attack of insanity, arising from a disappointment of the heart. much depends upon the firmness of the general character, and the natural force of their common sense. if i were to judge, not only by what i have heard from this most beautiful and interesting creature, as well as from the history of her heart, which her brother gave me so fully, i would say that i think this attack will not be a long one. i am of opinion that her mind is in a state of transition not from reason but to it; and that this transition will not be complete without much physical suffering. the state of her pulse assures me of this, as does the coldness of her hands. i should not be surprised if, in the course of this very night she were attacked with strong fits. these, if they take place, will either restore her to reason or confirm her insanity. poor girl,” said the amiable man, looking on her whilst his eyes filled with tears, “he must have been a heartless wretch to abandon such a creature. my dear jane,” he added, addressing her, for he had been, and still is, familiar with the family; “i am sorry to find you are so unwell, but you will soon be bettor. do you not know me.”

“it was sworn,” said the unhappy mourner; “it was sworn and i felt this here—here “—and she placed her hand upon her heart; “i felt this little tenant of my poor bosom sink—sink, and my blood going from my cheeks when the words were uttered. more beautiful! more beautiful! why, and what is love if it is borne away merely by beauty? i loved him not for his beauty alone. i loved him because he—he—because he loved me—but at first i did love him for his beauty; well, he has found another more beautiful; and his own jane sinclair, his fawn of springvale, as he used to call me, is forgotten. but mark me—let none dare to blame him—he only fulfilled his destined part—the thing was foredoomed, and i knew that by my suppression of the truth to my papa, the seal of reprobation was set to my soul. then—then it was that i felt myself a cast-away! and indeed,” she added, rising up and laying the forefinger of her right hand, on the palm of her left, “i would at any time sacrifice myself for his happiness; i would; yet alas,” she added, sitting down and hanging her head in sorrow; “why—why is it that i am so miserable, when he is happy? why is that, miss jane sinclair—why is that?” she then sighed deeply, and added in a tone of pathos almost irresistible—“oh that i had the wings of a dove, that i might flee away and be at rest.”

she had scarcely spoken, when, by a beautiful and affecting coincidence, ariel entered the room, and immediately flew into her bosom. she put her hand up and patted it for some time rather unconsciously than otherwise.

“ah, you foolish bird,” she at length said; “have you no better place of rest, no calmer spot to repose upon, than a troubled and a broken heart?”

this incident of the dove, together with the mournful truth of this melancholy observation, filled every eye with tears, except those of her father, who now exhibited a spirit of calm obedience to what he considered an affliction that called upon him to act as one whose faith was not the theory of a historic christian.

“but how,” added jane, “can i be unhappy with the paraclete in my bosom? the paraclete—oh that i were not reprobate and foredoomed—then indeed, he might be there—all, all by one suppression of truth—but surely my papa pities his poor girl for that, there is, i know, one that loves me, and one that pities me. my papa knows that i am foredoomed, and cannot but pity me: but where is he, and why does he delay so long. hush! i will sing—

the dawning of morn, the daylight’s sinking,

the night’s long hours still find me thinking

of thee, thee—only thee!”

she poured a spirit into these words so full of the wild sorrow of insanity, as to produce an effect that was thrilling and fearful upon those who were forced to listen to her. nay, her voice seemed, in some degree, to awaken her own emotions, or to revive her memory to a confused perception of her situation. and in mercy it would appear that providence unveiled only half her memory to reason; for from the effect which even that passing glimpse had upon her, it is not wrong to infer that had she seen it in its full extent, she would have immediately sunk under it.

after singing the words of moore with all the unregulated pathos of a maniac, she wrung her hands, and was for a considerable time silent. during this interval she sighed deeply, and after a pause of half an hour arose suddenly, and seizing her father by the breast of the coat, brought him over, and placed him on the sofa beside her. she then looked earnestly into his face, and was about to speak, but her thoughts were too weak for the task, and after putting her hand to her forehead, as if to assist her recollection, she let it fall passively beside her, and hung-her head in a mood, partaking at once of childish pique and deep dejection.

the doctor, who watched her closely, observed, that in his opinion the consequences of the unhappy intelligence that day communicated to her, had not yet fully developed themselves. “the storm has not yet burst,” he added, “but it is quite evident that the elements for it are fast gathering. she will certainly have a glimpse of reason before the paroxysms appear, because, in point of fact, that is what will induce them.”

“how soon, doctor,” asked her mother, “do you think she will have to encounter this fresh and woeful trial?”

“i should be disposed to think within the lapse of twenty-four hours; certainly within forty-eight.”

the amiable doctor’s opinion, however, was much more quickly verified than he imagined; for jane, whose heart yearned towards her father with the beautiful instinct of an affection which scarcely insanity itself could overcome, once more looked earnestly into his face, with an eye in which meaning and madness seemed to struggle for the mastery. she gazed at him for a long time, put her hands upon his white hair, into which she gently twined her long white fingers; once or twice she smiled, and said something in a voice too low to be heard: but all at once she gave a convulsive start, clasped her hands wofully, and throwing herself on his bosom, exclaimed:

“oh papa, papa—your child is lost: pray for me—pray for me.”

her sobs became too thick and violent for further utterance; she panted and wrought strongly, until at length she lay with locked teeth and clenched hands struggling in a fit which eventually, by leaving her, terminated in a state of lethargic insensibility.

for upwards of three days she suffered more than any person unacquainted with her delicacy of constitution could deem her capable of enduring. and, indeed, were it not that the aid rendered by dr. m’cormick was so prompt and so skilful, it is possible that the sorrows of the faithful jane sinclair might have here closed. on the fourth day, however, she experienced a change; but, alas, such a change as left the loving and beloved group who had hung over her couch with anxious hopes of her restoration to reason, now utterly hopeless and miserable. she arose from her paroxysms a beautiful, happy, and smiling maniac, from whose soul in mercy had been removed that susceptibility of mental pain, which constitutes the burthen and bitterness of ordinary calamity.

the first person who discovered this was her mother, who, on the fourth morning of her illness, had stolen to her bedside to see how her beloved one felt. agnes, who would permit no other person to nurse her darling sister, lay asleep with her head reclining on the foot of the bed, having been overcome by her grief and the fatigue of incessant watching. as her mother stooped down to look into the sufferer’s face, her heart bounded with delight oh seeing jane’s eyes smiling upon her with all the symptoms of recognition.

“jane, my heart’s dearest,” she said, in a soothing, low inquiry, “don’t you know me?”

“yes, very well,” she replied; “you are my mamma, and this is agnes sleeping on the foot of the bed. why does she sleep there?”

the happy mother scarcely heard her child’s question, for ere the words were well uttered she laid her head down upon the mourner’s bosom, in a burst of melancholy joy, and wept so loudly that her voice awakened agnes, who, starting up, exclaimed:

“oh, mother, mother—what is this? is—?” she said, “no, no—she must not—she would not leave her agnes. oh mother—mother, is it so?”

“no, no, agnes love; no—but may the mercy of god be exalted for ever, jane knows her mamma this morning, and she knows you too, agnes.”

that ever faithful sister no sooner heard the words, than a smile of indescribable happiness overspread her face, which, however, became instantly pale, and the next moment she sunk down, and in a long swoon forgot both the love and sorrow of her favorite sister. in little more than a minute the family were assembled in the sickroom, and heard from mrs. sinclair’s lips the history, as she thought, of their beloved one’s recovery. agnes was soon restored, and indeed it would be impossible to witness a scene of such unexpected delight, as that presented by the rejoicing group which surrounded the bed of the happy—alas, too happy, jane sinclair.

“is it possible, my dear,” said her father, “that our darling is restored to her sense and recollection?”

“try her, henry,” said the proud mother.

“jane, my love, do you not know me?” he asked.

“to be sure, papa; to be sure,” she replied smiling.

“and you know all of us, my heart’s treasure?”

“help me up a little,” she replied; “now i will show you: you are my papa—there is my mamma—that is william—and maria there will kiss me.”

maria, from whose eyes gushed tears of delight, flew to the sweet girl’s bosom.

“but,” added jane, “there is another—another that must come to my bosom and stay there—agnes!”

“i am here, my own darling,” replied agnes, stooping and folding her arms about the beautiful creature’s snow-white neck, whilst she kissed her lips with a fervor of affection equal to the delight experienced at her supposed recovery.

“there now, agnes, you are to sleep with mo to-night: but i want my papa. papa, i want you.”

her father stood forward, his mild eyes beaming with an expression of delight and happiness.

“i am here, my sweet child.”

“you ought to be a proud man, papa; a proud man: although i say it, that ought not to say it, you are father to the most beautiful girl in europe. charles osborne has traveled europe, and can find none at all so beautiful as the fawn of springvale, and so he is coming home one of these days to marry me, because, you know, because he could find none else so beautiful. if he had—if he had—you know—you may be assured, i would not be the girl of his choice. yet i would marry him still, if it were not for one thing; and that is—that i am foredoomed; a reprobate and a cast-away; predestined—predestined—and so i would not wish to drag him to hell along with me; i shall therefore act the heroic part, and refuse him. still it is something—oh it is much—and i am proud of it, not only on my own account, but on his, to be the most beautiful girl in europe! i am proud of it, because he would not marry if i were not.”

oh unhappy, but affectionate mourners, what—what was all you had yet suffered, when contrasted with the sudden and unexpected misery of this bitter moment your hearts had gathered in joy and happiness around the bed of that sweet girl, the gleams of whose insanity you had mistaken for the light of reason; and now has hope disappeared, and the darkness of utter despair fallen upon you all for ever.

“i wish to rise,” she proceeded, “and to join the morning prayer; until then i shall only dress in my wrapper: after that i shall dress as becomes me. i know i have nothing to hope either in this world or the next, consequently pride in me is not a sin: the measure of my misery has been filled up; and the only interval, of happiness left me, is that between this and death. dress me, agnes.”

the pause arising from the revulsion of feeling, occasioned by the discovery of her settled insanity, was indeed an exemplification of that grief which lies too deep for tears. sone of them could weep, but they looked upon her and each other, with a silent agony, which far transcended the power of clamorous sorrow.

“children,” said her father, whose fortitude, considering the nature of this his great affliction, was worthy of better days; “let us neither look upon our beloved one, nor upon each other. there,” said he, pointing upwards, “let us look there. you all know how i loved—how i love her. you all know how she loved me; but i cast—or i strive to cast the burthen, of my affliction upon him who has borne all for our salvation, and you see i am tearless. dress the dear child, agnes, and as she desires it, let her join us at prayer, and may the lord who has afflicted us, hearken to our supplications!”

tenderly and with trembling hands did agnes dress the beloved girl, and when the fair creature, supported by her two sisters, entered the parlor, never was a more divine picture of beauty seen to shine out of that cloud, with which the mysterious hand of of god had enveloped her.

at prayer she knelt as meekly, and with as much apparent devotion as she had ever done in the days of her most rational and earnest piety. but it was woful to see the blighted girl go through all the forms of worship, when it was known that the very habit which actuated her resulted from those virtues, which even insanity could not altogether repress.

when they had arisen from their, knees, she again addressed agnes in a tone of cheerful sweetness, such as she had exhibited in her happier days.

“agnes, now for our task; and indeed you must perform it with care. remember that you are about to dress the most beautiful girl in europe. what a fair cast-away am i, agnes?”

“i hope not a cast-away, jane; but i shall dress you with care and tenderness, notwithstanding.”

“every day i must dress in my best, because when charles returns, you know it will be necessary that i should justify his choice, by appearing as beautiful as possible.”

“give the innocent her own way,” said her father; “give her, in all that may gratify the child, her own way, where it is not directly wrong to do so.”

agnes and she then went up to her room, that she might indulge in that harmless happiness, which the fiction of hope had, under the mercy of god, extracted, from the reality of despair.

when the ceremony of the toilette was over, she and her sister returned to the parlor, and they could notice a slight tinge of color added to her pale cheek, by the proud consciousness of her beauty. the exertion, however, she had undergone, considering her extremely weak and exhausted state of of health was more than she could bear long. but a few minutes had elapsed after her reappearance in the parlor, when she said—

“mamma, i am unwell; i want to be undressed, and to go to bed; i am very faint; help me to bed, mamma—and if you come and stay with me, i shall tell you every thing about my prospects in life—yes, and in death, too; because i have prospects in death—but ah,” she added, shuddering, “they are dark—dark!”

seldom, indeed, was a family tried like this family; and never was the endurance of domestic love, and its triumph over the chilling habit of affliction, more signally manifested than in the undying tenderness of their hearts and hands, in all that was necessary to her comfort, or demanded by the childish caprices of her malady.

on going upstairs, she kissed them all as usual, but they then discovered, for the first time, in all its bitterness, what a dark and melancholy enjoyment it is to kiss the lips of a maniac, who has loved us, and whom we still must love.

“jane,” said william, struggling to be firm, “kiss me, too, before you go.”

“come to me, william,” said she, “for i am not able to go to you. oh, my brother, if i did not love you, i would be very wicked.”

the affectionate young man kissed her, and, as he did, the big tears rolled down his cheeks. he wept aloud.

“i never, never gave her up till now,” he exclaimed; “but”—and his face darkened into deep indignation as he spoke, “we shall see about it yet, jane dear. i shall allow a month or two—she may recover; but if i suffer this to go unav——” he paused; “i meant nothing,” he added, “except that i will not despair of her yet.”

about ten days restored her to something like health, but it was obvious that her constitution had sustained a shock which it could not long survive. of this dr. m’cormick assured them.

“in so delicate a subject as she is,” he added, “we usually find that when reason goes, the physical powers soon follow it. but if my opinion be correct, i think you will have the consolation of seeing her mind clear before she dies. there comes often in such cases what the common people properly, and indeed beautifully, term a light before death, and i think she will have it. as you are unanimous against putting her into a private asylum, you must only watch the sweet girl quietly, and without any appearance of vigilance, allowing her in all that is harmless and indifferent to have her own way. religious feeling you perceive constitutes a strong feature in her case, the rest is obviously the result of the faithless conduct of osborne. poor girl, here she comes, apparently quite happy.” jane entered as he spoke, after having been dressed as usual for the day, in her best apparel. she glanced for a moment at the glass, and readjusted her hair which had, she thought, got a little out of order; after which she said, smiling,

“why should i fear comparisons? he may come as soon as he pleases. i am ready to receive him, but do you know i think that my papa and mamma are not so fond of me as they ought to be. is it not an honor to have for their daughter a girl whose beauty is unsurpassed in europe? i am not proud of it for my own sake, but for his.”

“jane, do you know this gentleman, dear?” said her mother.

“oh yes; that is dr. m’cormick.”

“i am glad to see that your health is so much improved, my dear,” said the doctor.

“oh yes;” she replied, “i am quite well—that is so far as this world is concerned; but for all so happy as i look, you would never guess that i am reprobate. now could you tell me, doctor, why it is that i look so happy knowing as i do that i am foredoomed to misery?”

“no,” he replied, “but you will tell us yourself.”

“why it is because i do know it. knowing the worst is often a great consolation, i assure you. i, at least, have felt it so.”

“oh what a noble mind is lost in that sweet girl!” exclaimed the worthy physician.

“but it seems, mamma,” she proceeded, “there is a report gone abroad that i am mad. i met yesterday—was it not yesterday, agnes?—i met a young woman down on the river side, and she asked me if it were true that i was crazed with love, and how do you think i replied, mamma? i said to her, ‘if you would avoid misery—misery, mark—never violate truth even indirectly.’ i said that solemnly, and would have said more but that agnes rebuked her for speaking, and then wept. did you not weep, agnes?”

“oh no wonder i should,” replied her sister, deeply moved; “the interview she alludes to, doctor, was one that occurred the day before yesterday between her and another poor girl in the neighborhood who is also unsettled, owing to a desertion of a still baser kind. it was becoming too affecting to listen to, and i chid the poor thing off.”

“yes, indeed, she chid her off, and the poor thing as she told me, about to be a bride to-morrow. she said she was in quest of william that they might be married, and asked me if i had seen him. if you do, she added, tell him that fanny is waiting for him, and that as everything is ready she expects he’ll come and marry her to-morrow as he promised. now, mamma, agnes said, that although she chid her, she wept for her, but why should you weep, agnes, for a girl who is about to become a bride to-morrow? surely you did not weep because she was going to be made happy? did you?”

“all who are going to become brides are not about to experience happiness, my dear,” replied her sister.

“oh, i should think so certainly, agnes,” replied jane. “fie, fie, dear sister agnes, do not lay down such doctrine. did you not see the happy girl we met yesterday—was it yesterday? but no matter, agnes, we shall not quarrel about it. come and walk. good-by, my mamma; doctor, i wish you a good morning,” and with a grace that was inimitable, she made him a distant, but most respectful curtsey.

“oh!” said she, turning back, “if any stranger should arrive during my absence, mamma, send for me immediately; or stay do not—let him meet me at the place appointed; i will be there.”

she then took agnes’s arm, for agnes it was who attended her in all her ramblings, and both proceeded on their every-day saunter through the adjoining fields.

a little time, indeed, proved how very accurate had been the opinion of dr. m’cormick; for although jane was affected by no particular bodily complaint, yet it appeared by every day’s observation that she was gradually sinking. in the meantime, three or four months elapsed without bringing about any symptom whatsoever of improvement. her derangement flashed out into no extraordinary paroxysm, but on the contrary assumed a wild and graceful character, sometimes light and unsettled as the glancing of sunbeams on a disturbed current, and occasionally pensive and beautiful as the beams of an autumnal moon. in all the habits of the family she was most exact. her devotional composure at prayer appeared to be fraught with the humblest piety; her attendance at meeting was remarkably punctual, and her deportment edifying to an extreme degree. the history, too, of her insanity and its cause had gone far and wide, as did the sympathy which it excited. in all her innocent ramblings with agnes around her father’s house, and through the adjoining fields, no rude observation or unmannered gaze ever offended the gentle creature; but on the contrary, the delicate-minded peasant of the north would often turn aside from an apprehension of disturbing her, as well perhaps as out of reverence for the calamity of a creature so very young and beautiful.

indeed, many affecting observations were made, which, could her friends have heard them, would have fallen like balm upon their broken spirits. full of compassion they were for her sore misfortune, and of profound sympathy for the sorrows of her family.

“alas the day, my bonnie lady! my heart is sair to see sae lovely a thing gliding about sae unhappy. black be his gate that had the heart to leave you, for rank and wealth, my winsome lassie. weary on him, and little good may his wealth and rank do him! oh wha would a thocht that the peerless young blossom wad hae been withered so soon, or that the fawn o’ springvale wad hae ever come to the like o’ this. alas! the day, too, for the friends that nurst you, ay bonnie bairn!” and then the kind-hearted matron would wipe her eyes on seeing the far-loved fawn of springvale passing by, unconscious that the fatal arrow which had first struck her was still quivering in her side. the fourth month had now elapsed, and jane’s malady neither exhibited any change nor the slightest symptom of improvement. william, who had watched her closely all along, saw that no hope of any such consummation existed. he remarked, too, with a bitter sense of the unprincipled injury inflicted on the confiding girl, that every week drew her perceptibly nearer and nearer to the grave. his blood had in fact long been boiling in his veins with an indignation which he could scarcely stifle. he entertained, however, a strong reverence for religion, and had jane, after a reasonable period, recovered, he intended to leave osborne to be punished only by his own remorse. there was no prospect, however, of her being restored to reason, and now his determination was finally taken. nay, so deeply resolved had he been on this as an ultimate step in the event of her not recovering, that soon after mr. osborne’s return from london, he waited on that gentleman, and declared his indignation at the treachery of his son to be so deep and implacable that he requested of him as a personal favor, to suspend all communication with the unhappy girl’s family, lest he might be tempted even by the sight of any person connected with so base a man, to go and pistol him on whatever spot he might be able to find him. this, which was rather harsh to the amiable gentleman, excited in his breast more of sorrow than resentment. but it happened fortunately enough for both parties that a day or two before this angry communication, dr. m’cormick had waited upon the latter, and gave it as his opinion that any intercourse between the two families would be highly dangerous to jane’s state of mind, by exciting associations that might bring back to her memory the conduct of his son. the consequence was, that they saw each other only by accident, although mr. osborne often sent to inquire privately after jane’s health.

william having now understood that osborne and his wife resided in paris, engaged a friend to accompany him thither, for the purpose of demanding satisfaction for the injuries inflicted on his sister. all the necessary arrangements were accordingly made; the very day for their departure was appointed, and a letter addressed to agnes actually written, to relieve the family from the alarm occasioned by his disappearance, when a communication from osborne to his father, at once satisfied the indignant young man that his enemy was no longer an object for human resentment.

this requires but brief explanation. osborne, possessing as he did, ambition, talent, and enthusiasm in a high degree, was yet deficient in that firmness of purpose which is essential to distinction in public or private life. his wife was undoubtedly both beautiful and accomplished, and it is undeniable that his marriage with her opened to him brilliant prospects as a public man. notwithstanding her beauty, however, their union took place not to gratify his love, but his ambition. jane sinclair, in point of fact, had never been displaced from his affection, for as she was in his eye the most beautiful, so was she in the moments of self-examination, the best beloved. this, however, availed the unhappy girl but little, with a man in whose character ambition was the predominant impulse. to find himself beloved by a young and beautiful woman of wealth and fashion was too much for one who possessed but little firmness and an insatiable thirst after distinction. to jostle men of rank and property out of his path, and to jostle them successfully, when approaching the heart of an heiress, was too much for the vanity of an obscure young man, with only a handsome person and good talents to recommend him. the glare of fashionable life, and the unexpected success of his addresses made him giddy, and despite an ineffaceable conviction of dishonor and treachery, he found himself husband to a rich heiress, and son-in-law to a baronet. and now was he launched in fall career upon the current of fashionable dissipation, otherwise called high life. this he might have borne as well as the other votaries of polished profligacy, were it not for one simple consideration—he had neither health nor constitution, nor, to do the early lover of jane sinclair justice, heart for the modes and habits of that society, through the vortices of which he now found himself compelled to whirl. he was not, in fact, able to keep pace with the rapid motions of his fashionable wife, and the result in a very short time was, that their hearts were discovered to be anything but congenial—in fact anything but united. the absence of domestic happiness joined to that remorse which his conduct towards the unassuming but beautiful object of his first affection entailed upon a heart that, notwithstanding its errors, was incapable of foregoing its own convictions, soon broke down the remaining stamina of his constitution, and before the expiration of three months, he found himself hopelessly smitten by the same disease which had been so fatal to his family. his physicians told him that if there were any chance of his recovery, it must be in the efficacy of his native air; and his wife, with fashionable apathy, expressed the same opinion, and hoped that he might, after a proper sojourn at home, be enabled to join her early in the following season at naples. up to this period he had heard nothing of the mournful consequences which his perfidy had produced upon the intellect of our unhappy jane. his father, who in fact still entertained hopes of her ultimate sanity, now that his son was married, deemed it unnecessary to embitter his peace by a detail of the evils he had occasioned her. but when, like her brother william, he despaired of her recovery, he considered it only an act of justice towards her and her family to lay before charles the hideousness of his guilt together with its woful consequences. this melancholy communication was received by him the day after his physicians had given him over, for in fact the prescription of his native air was only a polite method of telling him that there was no hope. his conscience, which recent circumstances had already awakened, was not prepared for intelligence so dreadful. remorse, or rather repentance seized him, and he wrote to beg that his father would suffer a penitent son to come home to die.

this letter, the brief contents of which we have given, his father submitted to mr. sinclair, whose reply was indeed characteristic of the exalted christian, who can forget his own injury in the distress of his enemy.

“let him come,” said the old man; “our resentments have long since passed away, and why should not yours? he has now a higher interest to look to than any arising from either love or ambition. his immortal soul is at stake, and if we can reconcile him to heaven, the great object of existence will after all be secured. god forbid that our injuries should stand in the way of his salvation. allow me,” he added, “to bring this letter home, that i may read it to my family, with one exception of course. alas! it contains an instructive lesson.”

this was at once acceded to by the other, and they separated.

when william heard the particulars of osborne’s melancholy position, he of course gave up the hostility of his purpose, and laid before his friend a history of the circumstances connected with his brief and unhappy career.

“he is now a dying man,” said william, “to whom this life, its idle forms and unmeaning usages, are as nothing, or worse than nothing. a higher tribunal than the guilty spirit of this world’s honor will demand satisfaction from him for his baseness towards unhappy jane. to that tribunal i leave him; but whether he live or die, i will never look upon my insane sister, without thinking of him as a villain, and detesting his very name and memory.”

if these sentiments be considered ungenerous, let it be remembered that they manifested less his resentment to osborne, than the deep and elevated affection which he bore his sister, for whose injuries he felt much more indignantly than he would have done for his own.

jane, however, from this period forth began gradually to break down, and her derangement, though still inoffensive and harmless, assumed a more anxious and melancholy expression. this might arise, to be sure, from the depression of spirits occasioned by a decline of health. but from whatever cause it proceeded, one thing was evident, that an air of deep dejection settled upon her countenance and whole deportment. she would not, for instance, permit agnes in their desultory rambles to walk by her side, but besought her to attend at a distance behind her.

“i wish to be alone, dear agnes,” she said, “but notwithstanding that, i do not wish to be without you. i might have been some time ago the queen of beauty, but now, agnes, i am the queen of sorrow.”

“you have had your share of sorrow, my poor stricken creature,” replied agnes, heavily.

“but there is, agnes, a melancholy beauty in sorrow—it is so sweet to be sad. did. you ever see a single star in the sky, agnes?”

“yes, love, often.”

“well, that is like sorrow, or rather that is like me. does it not always seem to mourn, and to mourn alone, but the moment that another star arises then the spell is broken, and it seems no more to mourn in the solitude of heaven.”

“agnes looked at her with sad but earnest admiration, and exclaimed in a quivering-voice as she pressed her to her bosom,

“oh jane, jane, how my heart loves you!—the day is coming, my sister—our sweetest, our youngest, our dearest—the day is coming when we will see you no more—when your sorrows and your joys, whether real or imaginary—when all the unsettled evidences of goodness, which nothing could destroy, will be gone; and you with all you’ve suffered—with all your hopes and fears, will be no longer present for our hearts to gather about. oh my sister, my sister! how will the old man live! he will not—he will not. we see already that he suffers, and what it costs him to be silent. his gait is feeble and infirm is and head bent since the’ hand of afiliction has come upon you. yet, jane, jane, we could bear all, provided you were permitted to remain with us! your voice—your voice—and is the day so soon to come when we will not hear it? when our eyes will no more rest upon you? and”—added the affectionate girl, now overcome by her feelings, laying her calm sister’s head at the same time upon her bosom, “and when those locks so brown and rich that your agnes’s hands have so often dressed, will be mouldering in the grave, and that face—oh, the seal of death is upon your pale, pale cheek, my sister!—my sister!” she could say no more, but kissed jane’s lips, and pressing her to her heart, she wept in a long fit of irrepressible grief.

jane looked up with a pensive gaze into agnes’s face, and as she calmly dried her sister’s tears, said:—

“is it not strange, agnes, that i who am the queen of sorrow cannot weep. i resemble some generous princess, who though rich, gives away her wealth to the needy in such abundance that she is always poor herself. i who weep not, supply you all with tears, and cannot find one for myself when i want it. indeed so it seems, my sister.”

“it is true, indeed, jane—too true, too true, my darling.”

“agnes, i could tell you a secret. it is not without reason that i am the queen of sorrow.”

“alas, it is not, my sweet innocent.”

“i have the secret here,” said she, putting her hand to her bosom, “and no one suspects that i have. the cause why i am the queen of sorrow is indeed here—here. but come, i do not much like this arbor somehow. there is, i think, a reason for it, but i forget it. let us walk elsewhere.”

this was the arbor of osiers in which osborne in the enthusiasm of his passion, said that if during his travels he found a girl more beautiful, he would cease to love jane, and to write to her—an expression which, as the reader knows, exercised afterwards a melancholy power upon her intellect.

agnes and she proceeded as she desired, to saunter about, which they did for the most part in silence, except when she wished to stop and make an observation of her own free will. her step was slow, her face pale, and her gait, alas, quite feeble, and evidently that of a worn frame and a broken heart.

for some time past, she seemed to have forgotten that she was a foredoomed creature, and a cast-away, at least her allusions to this were less frequent than before—a circumstance which dr. m’cormick said he looked upon as the most favorable symptom he had yet seen in her case.

upon this day, however, she sauntered about in silence, and passed from place to place, followed by agnes; like the waning moon, accompanied by her faithful and attendant star.

after having passed a green field, she came upon the road with an intention of crossing it, and going down by the river to the yew tree, which during all her walks she never failed to visit. here it was that, for the second time, she met poor fanny morgan, the unsettled victim of treachery more criminal still than that which had been practised upon herself.

“you are the bonnie fawn of springvale that’s gone mad with love,” said the unhappy creature.

“no, no,” replied jane, “you are mistaken. i am the queen of sorrow.”

“i am to be married to-morrow,” said the other. “everything’s ready, but i can’t find william. did you see him? but maybe you may, and if you do—oh speak a word for me, but one word, and tell him that all’s ready, and that fanny’s waiting, and that he must not break his promise.”

“you are very happy to be married tomorrow.”

“yes,” replied the other smiling—“i am happy enough now; but when we are married—when william makes me his wife, people won’t look down on me any longer. i wish i could find him, for oh, my heart is sick, and will be sick, until i see him. if he knew how i was treated, he would not suffer it. if you see him, will you promise to tell him that all’s ready, and that i am waiting for him?—will you, my bonnie lady?”

“i could tell you a secret,” said jane—“they don’t know at home that i got the letter at all—but i did, and have read it—he is coming home—coming home to die—that’s what makes me the queen of sorrow. do you ever weep?”

“no, but they took the baby from me, and beat me—my brother john did; but william was not near to take my part?”

“who will you have at the wedding?”

“i have no bride’s maid yet—but may be you would be that for me, my bonnie lady. john said i disgraced them; but surely i only loved william. i wish to-morrow was past, and that he would remove my shame—i could then be proud, but now i cannot.”

“and what are you ashamed of? it is no shame to love him.”

“no, no, and all would be well enough, but that they beat me and took away the baby—my brother john did.”

“but did william ever swear to you, that if he mot a girl more beautiful, he would cease to love you, and to write to you?”

“no, he promised to marry me.”

“and do you know why he does not?”

“if i could, find him he would. oh, if you see him, will you tell him that i’m waiting, and that all’s ready?”

“you,” said jane, “have been guilty of a great sin.”

“so they said, and that i brought myself to shame too. but william will take away that if i could find him.”

“you told an indirect falsehood to your father—you concealed the truth—and now the hand of god is upon you. there is nothing for you now but death.”

“i don’t like death—it took away my baby—if they would give me back my baby i would not care—-except john—i would hide from him.”

“william’s married to another and dying, so that you may become a queen of sorrow too—would you like that—sorrow is a sweet thing.”

“how could he marry another, and be promised to me?”

“is your heart cold?” inquired jane.

“no,” replied the other smiling, “indeed i am to be married to-morrow?”

“let me see you early in the morning,” said jane—“if you do, perhaps i may give you this,” showing the letter. “your heart cannot be cold if you keep it—i carry it here,” said she, putting her hand to her bosom—“but i need not, for mine will be warm enough soon.”

“mine’s warm enough too,” said the other.

“if william comes, you will find poison on his lips,” said jane, “and that will kill you—the poison of polluted lips would kill a thousand faithful hearts—it, would—and there is nothing for treachery but sorrow. be sorrowful—be sorrowful—it is the only thing to ease a deserted heart—it eases mine.”

“but then they say you’re crazed with love.”

“no, no—with sorrow; but listen, never violate truth—never be guilty of falsehood; if you do, you will become unhappy; and if you do not, the light of god’s countenance will shine upon you.”

“indeed it is no lie, for as sure as you stand there to-morrow is the day.”

“i think i love you,” said the gentle and affectionate jane. “will you kiss me? my sister agnes does when i ask her.”

“why shouldn’t i, my bonnie, bonnie lady? why shouldn’t i? oh! indeed, but you are bonnie, and yet be crazed with love! well, well, he will never comb a gray head that deserted the bonnie fawn of spring-vale.”

jane, who was much the taller, stooped, and with a smile of melancholy, but unconscious sympathy, kissed the forlorn creature’s lips, and after beckoning agnes to follow her, passed on.

that embrace! who could describe its character? oh! man, man, and woman, woman, think of this!

agnes, after jane and she had returned home, found that a search had been instigated during their absence for the letter which charles had written to his father. mr. sinclair, anxious to return it, had missed it from among his papers, and felt seriously concerned at its disappearance.

“i only got it to read to the family,” said he, “and what am i to say, or what can i say, when mr. osborne asks me, as he will, to return it? agnes, do you know anything of it?”

agnes, who, from the interview between jane and the unsettled fanny morgan, saw at once that it had got, by some means unknown to the family, into her sister’s hands, knew not exactly in what terms to reply. she saw too, that jane looked upon the possession of the letter as a secret, and in her presence she felt that considering her sister’s view of the matter, and her state of mind, she could not, without pressing too severely on the gentle creature’s sorrow, inform her father of the truth.

“papa,” said the admirable and considerate girl, “the letter i have no doubt will be found. i beg of you papa, i beg of you not to be uneasy about it; it will be found.”

this she said in a tone as significant as possible, with a hope that her father might infer from her manner that jane had the letter in question.

the old man looked at agnes, and appeared as if striving to collect the meaning of what she said, but he was not long permitted to remain in any doubt upon the subject.

jane approached him slowly, and putting her hand to her bosom, took out the letter and placed it upon the table before him.

“it came from him,” said she, “and that was the reason why i put it next my heart. you know, papa, he is dying, and this letter is a message of death. i thought that such a message was more proper from him to me than to any one else. i have carried it next my heart, and you may take it now, papa. the message has been delivered, and i feel that death is here—for that is all that he and it have left me. i am the star of sorrow—pale and mournful in the lonely sky; yet,” she added as she did on another occasion, “we shall not all die, but we shall be changed.”

“my sweet child,” said mr. sinclair, “i am not angry with, you about the letter; i only wish you to keep your spirits up, and not be depressed so much as you are.” she appeared quite exhausted, and replied not for some time; at length she said:

“papa, mamma, have i done anything wrong? if i have tell me. oh, agnes, agnes, but my heart is heavy.”

“as sure as heaven is above us, henry,” whispered her mother to mr. sinclair, “she is upon the point of being restored to her senses.”

“alas, my dear,” he replied, “who can tell? it may happen as you say. oh how i shall bless god if it does! but still, what, what will it be but, as dr. m’cormick said, the light before death? the child is dying, and she will be taken from us for ever, for ever!”

jane, whilst they spoke, looked earnestly and with a struggling eye into the countenances of those who were about her; but again she smiled pensively, and said:

“i am—i am the star of sorrow, pale and mournful in the lonely sky. jane sinclair is no more—the fawn of springvale is no more—i am now nothing but sorrow. i was the queen, but now i am the star of sorrow. oh! how i long to set in heaven!”

she was then removed to bed, whore with her mother and her two sisters beside her, she lay quiet as a child, repeating to herself—“i am the star of sorrow, pale and mournful in the lonely sky; but now i know that i will soon set in heaven. jane sinclair is no more—the fawn of springvale is no more. no—i am now the star of sorrow!” the melancholy beauty of the sentiment seemed to soothe her, for she continued to repeat these words, sometimes aloud and sometimes in a sweet voice, until she fell gently asleep.

“she is asleep,” said agnes, looking upon her still beautiful but mournful features, now, indeed composed into an expression of rooted sorrow. they all stood over the bed, and looked upon her for many minutes. at length agnes clasped her hands, and with a suffocating voice, as if her heart would break, exclaimed, “oh mother, mother,” and rushed from the room that she might weep aloud without awakening the afflicted one who slept.

another week made a rapid change upon her for the worse, and it was considered necessary to send for dr. m’cormick, as from her feebleness and depression they feared that her dissolution was by no means distant, especially as she had for the last three days been confined to her bed. the moment he saw her, his opinion confirmed their suspicions.

“deal gently with her now,” said he; “a fit or a paroxysm of any kind would be fatal to her. the dear girl’s unhappy race is run—her sands are all but numbered. this moment her thread of life is not stronger than a gossamer.” ere his departure on that occasion, he brought mr. sinclair aside and thus addressed him:

“are you aware, sir, that mr. osborne’s son has returned.”

“not that he has actually returned,” replied mr. sinclair, “but i know that he is daily expected.”

“he reached his father’s house,” continued the doctor, “early yesterday; and such a pitiable instance of remorse as he is i have never seen, and i hope never shall. his cry is to see your daughter, that he may hear his forgiveness from her own lips. he says he cannot die in hope or in happiness, unless she pardons him. this, however, must not be—i mean an interview between them—for it would most assuredly prove fatal to himself; and should she see him only for a moment, that moment were her last.”

“i will visit the unhappy young man myself,” said her father; “as for an interview it cannot be thought of—even if they could bear it, charles forgets that he is the husband of another woman, and that, consequently, jane is nothing to him—and that such a meeting would be highly—grossly improper.”

“your motives, though perfectly just, are different from mine,” said the doctor—“i speak merely as a medical man. he wants not this to hurry him into the grave—he will be there soon enough.”

“let him feel repentance towards god,” said the old man heavily—“towards my child it is now unavailing. it is my duty, as it shall be my endeavor, to fix this principle in his heart.”

the doctor then departed, having promised to see jane on the next day but one. this gentleman’s opinion, however, with respect to his beautiful patient, was not literally correct; still, although she lingered longer than could naturally be anticipated from her excessive weakness, yet he was right in saying that her thread of life resembled, that of the gossamer.

in the course of the same evening, she gave the first symptom of a lucid interval; still in point of fact her mind was never wholly restored to sanity. she had slept long and soundly, and after awaking rang the bell for some one to come to her. this was unusual, and in a moment she was attended by agnes and her mother.

“i am very weak, my dear mamma,” said she, “and although i cannot say that i feel any particular complaint—i speak of a bodily one—yet i feel that my strength is gone, and that you will not be troubled with your poor jane much longer.”

“do not think so, dear love, do not think so,” replied her mother; “bear up, my darling, bear up, and all may yet be well.”

“agnes,” said she, “come to me. i know not—perhaps—dear agnes——”

she could utter no more. agnes flew to her, and they wept in each other’s arms for many minutes.

“i would be glad to see my papa,” she said, “and my dear maria and william. oh mamma, mamma, i suspect that i have occasioned you all much sorrow.”

“no, no, no—but more joy now, my heart’s own treasure, a thousand times more joy than you ever occasioned us of sorrow. do not think it, oh, do not think it.”

her father, who had just returned from visiting charles osborne, now entered her bedroom, accompanied by william and his two daughters—for agnes had flown to inform them of the happy turn which had taken place in jane’s malady. when he entered, she put her white but wasted hand out, and raised her head to kiss him.

“my dear papa,” said she, “it is so long, i think, since i have seen you; and maria, too. oh, dear maria, come to me—but you must not weep, dear sister. alas, maria,”—for the poor girl wept bitterly—“oh, my i sister, but your heart is good and loving. william”—she kissed him, and looking tenderly into his face, said,

“why, oh, why are you all in tears? imitate my papa, dear william. i am so glad to see you! papa, i have been—i fear i have been—but, indeed, i remember when i dreaded as much. my heart, my heart is heavy when i think of all the grief and affliction i must have occasioned you; but you will all forgive your poor jane, for you know she would not do so if she could avoid it. papa, how pale and careworn you look! as, indeed, you all do. oh, god help me. i see, i see—i read on your sorrowful faces the history of all you have suffered on my account.”

they all cherished, and petted, and soothed the sweet creature; and, indeed, rejoiced over her as if she had been restored to them from the dead.

“papa, would you get me the bible,” she continued. “i wish if possible to console you and the rest; and mamma, you will think when i am gone of that which i am about to show you; think of it all of you, for indeed an early death is sometimes a great blessing to those who are taken away. alas! who can say when it is not?”

they assisted her to sit up in the bed, and after turning over the leaves of the bible, she read in a voice of low impressive melody the first verse of the fifty-seventh chapter of isaiah.

“the righteous perisheth, and no man taketh it to heart; and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away from the evil to come. he shall enter into peace.”

“oh! many a death,” she continued, “is wept for and lamented by friends and relatives, who consider not that those for whom they weep may be taken away from the evil to come. i feel that i am unable to speak much, but it is your jane’s request, that the consolation to be found, not only in this passage, but in this book, may be applied to your hearts when i am gone.”

this effort, slight as it was, enfeebled her much, and she lay silent for some time; and such was their anxiety, neither to excite nor disturb her, that although their hearts were overflowing they restrained themselves, so far as to permit no startling symptoms of grief to be either seen or heard. after a little time, however, she spoke again:—-

“my poor bird,” said she, “i fear i have neglected it. dear agnes would you let me see it—i long to see it.” agnes in a few minutes returned and placed the bird in her bosom. she caressed it for a short time, and then looking at it earnestly said—

“is it possible, that you too, my ariel, are drooping?”

this indeed was true. the bird had been for some time past as feeble and delicate as if its fate were bound up with that of its unhappy mistress—whether it was that the sight of it revived some recollection that disturbed her, or whether this brief interval of reason was as much as exhausted nature could afford on one occasion, it is difficult to say; but the fact is, that after looking on it for some time, she put her hand to her bosom and asked, “where, where is the letter?”

“what letter, my darling?” said her father.

“is not charles unhappy and dying?” she said.

“he is ill, my love,” said her father, “but not dying, we trust.”

“it is not here,” she said, searching her bosom, “it is not here—but it matters nothing now—it was a message of death, and the message has been delivered. sorrow—sorrow—sorrow—how beautiful is that word—there is but one other in the language that surpasses it, and that is mourn. oh! how beautiful is that too—how delicately expressive. weep is violent; but mourn, the graduated tearless grief that wastes gently—that disappoints death, for we die not but only cease to be. i am the star of sorrow, pale and mournful in the lonely sky—well, that is one consolation—when i set i shall set in heaven.”

they knew by experience that any attempt at comfort would then produce more evil than good. for near two hours she uttered to herself in a low chant, “i am the star of sorrow, etc.,” after which she sank as before into a profound slumber.

her intervals of reason, as death approached, were mercifully extended. whilst they lasted, nothing could surpass the noble standard of christian duty by which her feelings and moral sentiments were regulated. for a fortnight after this, she sank with such a certain but imperceptible approximation towards death that the eyes even of affection could, scarcely notice the gradations of its approach.

during this melancholy period, her father was summoned upon an occasion which was strongly calculated to try the sincerity of his christian professions. not a day passed that he did not forget his own sorrows, and the reader knows how heavily they pressed upon him—in order to prepare the mind of his daughter’s destroyer for the awful change which death was about to open upon his soul. he reasoned—he prayed—he wept—he triumphed—yes, he triumphed, nor did he ever leave the death-bed of charles osborne, until he had succeeded in fixing his heart upon that god “who willeth not the death of a sinner.”

a far heavier trial upon the christian’s fortitude, however, was soon to come upon him. jane, as the reader knows, was now at the very portals of heaven. for hours in the day—she was perfectly rational; but again she would wander into her chant of sorrow,—as much from weakness as from the original cause of her malady; for upon this it is difficult if not impossible to determine.

on the last evening, however, that her father ever attended charles osborne, he came home as usual, and was about to inquire how jane felt, when maria come to him with eyes which weeping had made red, and said—

“oh papa—i fear—we all fear, that—i cannot utter it—i cannot—i cannot—oh papa, at last the hour we fear is come.”

“remember, my child, that you are speaking,” said this heroic christian, “remember that you are speaking to a christian father, who will not set up his affections, nor his weaknesses, nor his passions against the will of god.”

“oh! but papa—jane, jane”—she burst into bitter tears for more than a minute, and then added—“jane, papa, is dying—leaving us at last!”

“maria,” said he, calmly, “leave me for some minutes. you know not, dear child, what my struggles have been. leave me now—this is the trial i fear—and now must i, and so must you all—but now must i——oh, leave me, leave me.”

he knelt down and prayed; but in less than three, minutes, agnes, armed with affection—commanding and absolute it was from that loving sister—came to him.

she laid her hand upon his arm, and pressed it. “papa!”—

“i know it,” said he, “she is going; but, agnes, we must be christians.”

“we must be sisters, papa; and ah, papa, surely, surely this is a moment in which the father may forget the christian. jesus wept for a stranger; what would he not have done for a brother or a sister?”

“agnes, agnes,” said he, in a tone of sorrow, inexpressibly deep, “is this taxing me with want of affection for—for—”

she flung herself upon his breast. “oh, papa, forgive me, forgive me—i am not capable of appreciating the high and holy principles from which you act. forgive me; and surely if you ever forgave me on any occasion, you will on this.”

“dear agnes,” said he, “you scarcely ever required my forgiveness, and less now than! ever—even if you had. come—i will go; and may the lord support and strengthen us all! your mother—our poor mother!”

on entering the room of the dying girl, they found her pale cheek laid against that of her other parent, whose arms were about her, as if she would hold them in love and tenderness for ever. when she saw them approach, she raised her head feebly, and said—“is that my papa? my beloved papa?” the old man raised his eyes once more to heaven for support—but for upwards of half a minute the muscles of his face worked with power that evinced the full force of what he suffered—

“i am here, i am here,” he at length said, with difficulty.

“and that is agnes?” she inquired. “agnes, come near me; and do not be angry, dear agnes that i die on mamma’s bosom and not on yours.”

agnes could only seize her pale hand and bathe it in tears. “angry with you—you living angel—oh, who ever was, or could be, my sister!”

“you all love me too much,” she said. “maria, it grieves me to see your grief so excessive—william, oh why, why will you weep so? is it because i am about to leave the pains and sorrows of this unhappy life, and; to enter into peace, that you all grieve thus bitterly. believe me—and i know this will relieve my papa’s heart—and all your hearts—will it not yours, my mamma?—it is this—your jane, your own jane is not afraid to die. her hopes are fixed on the rock of ages—the rock of her salvation. i know, indeed, that my brief existence has been marked at its close with care and sorrow; but these cares and sorrows have brought me the sooner to that place where all tears shall be wiped from my eyes. let my fate, too, be a warning to young creatures like myself, never to suffer their affection for any object to overmaster their sense and their reason. i cherished the passion of my heart too much, when i ought to have checked and restrained it—and now, what is the consequence? why, that i go down in the very flower of my youth to an early grave.”

agnes caught the dear girl’s hands when she had concluded, and looking with a breaking heart into her face, said—

“and oh, my sister, my sister, are you leaving us—are you leaving us for ever, my sister? life will be nothing to me, my jane, without you—how, how will your agnes live?”

“i doubt we are only disturbing—our cherished one,” said her father. “let our child’s last moments be calm—and her soul—oh let it not be drawn back from its hopes, to this earth and its affections.”

“papa, pray for me, and they will join with you—pray for your poor jane while it is yet time—the prayer of the righteous availeth much.”

earnest, indeed, and melancholy, was that last prayer offered up on behalf of the departing girl. when it was concluded there was a short silence, as if they wished not to break in upon what they considered the aspirations of the dying sufferer. at length the mother thought she felt her child’s cheek press against her own with a passive weight that alarmed her.

“jane, my love,” said she, “do you not feel your soul refreshed by your father’s prayer?”

no answer was returned to this, and on looking more closely at her countenance of sorrow, they found that her gentle spirit had risen on the incense of her father’s prayer to heaven. the mother clasped her hands, whilst the head of her departed daughter still lay upon her bosom.

“oh god! oh god!” said she, “our idol is gone—is gone!”

“gone!” exclaimed the old man; “now, oh lord, surely—surely the father’s grief may be allowed,” and he burst, as he spoke, into a paroxysm of uncontrollable sorrow.

“and what am i to do—who am—oh woe—woe—who was her mother?”

to the scene that ensued, what pen could do justice—we cannot, and consequently leave it to the imagination of our readers, whose indulgence we crave for our many failures and errors in the conduct of this melancholy story.

thus passed the latter days of the unhappy jane sinclair, of whose life nothing more appropriate need be said, than that which she herself uttered immediately before her death:

“let my fate be a warning to young creatures like myself, never to suffer their affection for any object to overmaster their sense and their reason. i cherished the passion of my heart too much, when i ought to have checked and restrained it—and now, what is the consequence? why, that i go down in the very flower of my youth to an early grave.”

on the day after her dissolution, an incident occurred, which threw the whole family into renewed sorrow:—early that morning, ariel, her dove, was found dead upon her bosom, as she lay out in the composure of death.

“remove it not,” said her father; “it shall be buried with her;” and it was accordingly placed upon her bosom in the coffin.

seldom was a larger funeral train seen, than that which attended her remains to the grave-yard; and rarely was sorrow so deeply felt for any being so young and so unhappy, as that which moved all hearts for the fate of the beautiful but unfortunate jane sinclair—the far-famed fawn of springvale.

one other fact we have to record: jane’s funeral had arrived but a few minutes at the grave, when another funeral train appeared slowly approaching the place of death. it was that of charles osborne!

the last our readers may have anticipated. from the day of jane’s death the heart of the old man gradually declined. he looked about him in vain for his beloved one. night and day her name was never out of his mouth. it is true he prayed, he read, he availed himself of all that the pious exercises of a christian man could contribute to the alleviation of his sorrow. but it was in vain. in vain did his wife, son, and daughters strive to soothe and console him. the old man’s heart was broken. his beloved one was gone, and he felt that he could not remain behind her. a gradual decay of bodily strength, and an utter breaking down of his spirits, brought about the consummation which they all dreaded. at the expiration of four months and a half, the old man was laid in the same grave that contained his beloved one—and he was happy.

the end