“It would be well for me,” she at length said, “that is, I fear it would, that I had never heard that air, or seen him who first sent its melancholy music to my heart.  He is gone; but when—­when will he return?”

“Do not take his departure so heavily, dear child,” said her father.  “If you were acquainted with life and the world you would know that a journey to the Continent is nothing.  Two years to one as young as you are will soon pass.”

“It would, papa, if I loved him less.  But my love for him—­my love for him—­that now is my misery.  I must, however, rely upon other strength than my own.  Papa, kneel down and pray for me,—­and you, mamma, and all of you; for I fear I am myself incapable of praying as I used to do, with an un-divided heart.”

Her father knelt down, but knowing her weak state of mind, he made his supplication as short and simple as might be consistent with the discharge of a duty so solemn.

“Now,” said she, when it was concluded, “will you, mamma, and Agnes, help me to bed; I am very much exhausted, and my heart is sunk as if it were never to beat lightly again.  It may yet; I would hope it,—­hope it if I could.”

They allowed her her own way, and without any allusion whatsoever to Charles, or his departure, more than she had made herself, they embraced her; and in a few minutes she was in bed, and as was soon evident to Agnes, who watched her, in a sound sleep.

Why is it that those who are dear to us are more tenderly dear to us while asleep than while awake?  It is indeed difficult to say but we know that there are many in life and nature, especially in the and affections, which we feel as distinct truths without being able to satisfy ourselves they are so.  This is one of them.  What parent does not love the offspring more glowingly while the features are composed in sleep?  What young husband does not feel his heart melt with a warmer emotion, on contemplating the countenance of his youthful wife, when that countenance is overshadowed with the placid but somewhat mournful beauty of repose?

When the family understood from Agnes that Jane had fallen into a slumber, they stole up quietly, and standing about her, each looked upon her with a long gaze of relief and satisfaction; for they knew that sleep would repair the injury which the trial of that day had wrought upon a mind so delicately framed as her’s.  We question not but where there is beauty it is still more beautiful in sleep.  The passions are then at rest, and the still harmony of the countenance unbroken by the jarring discords and vexations of waking life; every feature then falls into its natural place, and renders the symmetry of the face chaster, whilst its general expression breathes more of that tender and pensive character, which constitutes the highest order of beauty.