“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?”