Her youthful lover gazed upon her as she stood with her sparkling eyes fixed upon vacancy.  Never did she appear so beautiful, her features were kindled into an expression which was new to him—­but an expression so full of high moral feeling, beaming like the very divinity of truth from her countenance, yet overshadowed by an unsettled gloom, which gave to her whole appearance the power of creating both awe and admiration in the spectator.

The boy was deeply affected, and in a voice scarcely firm, said in soothing and endearing accents, whilst he took her hand in his,

“Jane, my best beloved, and dearest—­say, oh say in what manner I can compose your mind, or relieve you from the necessity of practising the deceit which troubles you so much.”

“Oh,” said she, bending her eye on him, “but it is sweet to be beloved by those that are dear to us.  Your sympathy thrills through my whole frame with a soothing sensation inexpressibly delightful.  It is sweet to me—­for you, Charles, are my only confident.  Dear, dear Charles, how I longed to see you, and to hear your voice.”

As she made this simple but touching admission of the power of her love, she laid her head on his bosom and wept.  Charles pressed her to his heart, and strove to speak, but could not—­she felt his tears raining fast upon her face.

At length he said, pressing his beautiful once more to his beating bosom—­“the moment, the moment that I cease to love you, may it, O God, be my last.”

She rose, and quietly wiping her eyes, said—­“I will go—­we will meet no more—­no more in secret.”

“Oh, Jane,” said her lover, “how shall I make myself worthy of you; but why,” he added, “should our love be a secret?  Surely it will be sanctioned by our friends.  You shall not be distressed by the necessity of insincerity, although it would be wrong to call the simple concealment of your love for me by so harsh a name.”

“But my papa,” she said, “he is so good to me; they are all so affectionate, they love me too much; but my dear papa, I cannot stand with a stain on my conscience in his presence.  Not that I fear him; but it would be treacherous and ungrateful:  I would tell him all, but I cannot.”

“My sweet girl, let not that distress you.  Your father shall be made acquainted with it from other lips.  I will disclose the secret to my father, and, with a proud heart, tell him of our affection.”

It never once occurred to a creature so utterly unacquainted with the ways of the world as Jane was that Mr. Osburne might disapprove of their attachment, and prevent a boy so youthful from following the bent of his own inclinations.

“Dear Charles,” said she, smiling, “what a load their approval will take off my heart.  I can then have papa’s pardon for my past duplicity towards him; and my mind will be so much soothed and composed.  We can also meet each other with their sanction.”