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!”