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.”