“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!