“Dear Jane,” said her father, “we did not know you were with us.”

She made no immediate reply, but, after a moment’s apparent struggle, went over, and laying her head upon his bosom, sobbed out—­“Papa, your love has overcome me.  I will tell you all.”

“Soul of truth and candor,” exclaimed the old man, clasping her to his bosom, “heroic child!  I knew she would do it, and I said so.  Go out now, and leave us to ourselves.  Darling, don’t be distressed.  If you feel difficulty I will not ask to hear it.  Or perhaps you would rather mention it to your mamma.”

“No—­to you papa—­to you—­and you will not be harsh upon me, I am a weak girl, and have done very wrong.”

It was indeed a beautiful thing to see this fair and guiltless penitent leaning against her indulgent father’s bosom, in which her blushing face was hid, and disclosing the history of an attachment as pure and innocent as ever warmed the heart of youth and beauty.  Oh no wonder, thou sweetest and most artless of human beings, that when the heavy blight of reason came upon thee, and thou disappearedst from his eyes, that the old man’s spirit became desolate and his heart broken, and that he said after thy dissolution to every word of comfort uttered to him—­“It is vain, it is vain—­I cannot stay.  I hear her voice calling me—­she calls me, my beautiful—­my pride—­my child—­my child—­she calls me, and I cannot stay.”  Nor did he long.

To none else did her father that night reveal the purport of this singular disclosure, except to Mrs. Sinclair herself—­but the next morning before breakfast, the secret had been made known to the rest.  All trouble and difficulty, as to the conduct they should pursue, were removed in consequence of Osborne’s intention to ask his father to sanction their attachment, and until the consequence of that step should be known, nothing further on their part could be attempted.  On this point, however, they were not permitted to remain long in suspense, for ere two o’clock that day, Mr. Osborne had, in the name of his son, proposed for the hand of our fair girl, which proposal we need scarcely say was instantly and joyfully accepted.  It is true, their immediate union was not contemplated.  Both were much too youthful and inexperienced to undertake the serious duties of married life, but it was arranged that Osborne, whose health, besides, was not sufficiently firm, should travel, see the world, and strengthen his constitution by the genial air of a warmer and more salubrious climate.

Alas! why is it that the sorrows of love are far sweeter than its joys?  We do not mean to say that our young hero and heroine, if we may presume so to call them, were insensible to this lapse of serene delight which now opened upon them.  No—­the happiness they enjoyed was indeed such as few taste in such a world as this is.  Their attachment was now sanctioned by all their mutual friends, and its progress was unimpeded by an scruple arising from clandestine intercourse, or a breach of duty.  But, with secrecy, passed away those trembling snatches of unimaginable transport which no state of permitted love has ever yet known.  The stolen glance, the passing whisper, the guarded pressure of the soft white hand timidly returned, and the fearful rapture of the hurried kiss—­alas! alas!—­and alas! for the memory of Eloiza!