She stopped, and dropping her head upon the knees of her smiling and apparently happy sister, wept aloud.

“Agnes—­Agnes,” said William, (they were all in tears except her father) “Agnes, I am ashamed of you;”—­yet his own cheeks were wet, and his voice faltered.  “Father, come with me for awhile.  You will when alone for a few minutes, bethink you of your duty—­for it is your duty to bear this not only as becomes a Christian man, but a Christian minister, who is bound to give us example as well as precept.”

“I know it, William, I know it;—­and you shall witness my fortitude, my
patience, my resignation under this--this-----.  I will retire.  But is
she not—­alas!  I should say, was she not my youngest and my dearest!  You
admit yourselves she was the best.”

“Father, come,” said William.

“Dear father—­dear papa, go with him,” said Agnes.

“My father,” said Maria, “as he said to her, will be himself.”

“I will go,” said the old man; “I know how to be firm; I will reflect; I will pray; I will weep.  I must, I must——­”

He pressed the beautiful creature to his bosom, kissed her lips, and as he hung over her, his tears fell in torrents upon her cheeks.

Oh! what a charm must be in sympathy, and in the tears which it sheds over the afflicted, when those of the grey-haired father could soothe his daughter’s soul into that sorrow which is so often a relief to the miserable and disconsolate!

When Jane first felt his tears upon her cheeks, she started slightly, and the smile departed from her countenance.  As he pressed her to his heart she struggled a little, and putting her arms out, she turned up her eyes upon his face, and after a long struggle between memory and insanity, at length whispered out “papa!”

“You are with me, darling,” he exclaimed; “and I am with you, too:  and here we are all about you,—­your mother, and Agnes, and all.”

“Yes, yes,” she replied; “but papa,—­and where is my mamma?”

“I am here, my own love; here I am.  Jane, collect yourself, my treasure.  You are overcome with sorrow.  The parting from Charles Osborne has been too much for you.”

“Perhaps it was wrong to mention his name,” whispered William.  “May it not occasion a relapse, mother?”

“No,” she replied.  “I want to touch her heart, and get her to weep if possible.”

Her daughter’s fingers were again involved in the tangles of her beautiful ringlets, and once more was the sweet but vacant smile returning to her lips.

“May God relieve her and us,” said Maria; “the darling child is relapsing!”

Agnes felt so utterly overcome, that she stooped, and throwing her arms around her neck wept aloud, with her cheek laid to Jane’s.

Again the warmth of the tears upon the afflicted one’s face seemed to soothe or awaken her.  She looked up, and with a troubled face exclaimed:—­