“Why is it,” she said to herself, “that a conviction as if of guilt mingles itself with my affection for him; and that snatches of pain and melancholy darken my mind, when I join in our morning and evening worship?  I fear, I fear, that God’s grace and protection have been withdrawn from me ever since I deceived my father.  But these errors,” she proceeded, “are my own, and not Henry’s, and why should he suffer pain and distress because I have been uncandid to others?”

Upon this slender argument she proceeded to write the following reply, but still with an undercurrent of something like remorse stealing through a mind that felt with incredible delicacy the slightest deviation from what was right, yet possessed not the necessary firmness to resist what was wrong.

“I know that it is indelicate and very improper—­yes, and sinful in me to write to you—­and I would not do so, but that I cannot bear to think that you should suffer pain.  Why should you be distressed, when you know that my affection for you will never change?—­will, alas!  I should add, can never change.  Dear Henry, is it not sufficient for our happiness that our love is mutual?  It ought at least to be so; and it would be so, provided we kept its character unstained by any deviation from moral feeling or duty in the sight of God.  You must not continue to write to me, for I shall not, and I can not persist in a course of deliberate insincerity to those who love me with so much affection.  I will, however, see you this day, two hours earlier than the time appointed in your note.  I could not absent myself from the family then, without again risking an indirect breach of truth, and this I am resolved never to do.  I hope you will not think less of me for writing to you, although it be very wrong on my part.  I have already wept for it, and my eyes are even now filled with tears; but you surely will not be a harsh judge upon the conduct of your own

“Jane Sinclair.”

Having sealed this letter, she hid it in her bosom, and after delaying a short time to compose her features, again proceeded to the shrubbery, where she found the servant waiting.  Simple as was the act of handing him the note, yet so inexpressibly delicate was the whole tenor of her mind, that the slightest step irreconcilable with her standard of female propriety, left behind it a distinct and painful trace that disturbed the equilibrium of a character so finely balanced.  With an abashed face and burning brow, she summoned courage, however, to give it, and was instantly proceeding home, when the messenger observed that she had given him the wrong letter.  She then took the right one from her bosom, and placing it in his hands would again have hurried into the house.”

“You do not mean, I suppose, to send him back his own note,” observed the man, handing her Osborne’s as he spoke.

“No, no,” she replied, “give it to me; I knew not—­in fact, it was a mistake.”  She then received Osborne’s letter, and hastily withdrew.