“There is no bearing my calamity, papa, as it ought to be borne, without the grace of God, and you know we must pray to be made worthy of that.  I dare say that if I am resigned and submissive that my usual cheerfulness will gradually return.  I have confidence in heaven, papa, but none in my own strength, or I should rather say in my own weakness.  My attachment to Charles resembles a disease more than a healthy and rational passion.  I know it is excessive, and I indeed think its excess is a disease.  Yet it is singular I do not fear my heart, papa, but I do my head; here is where the danger lies—­here—­here;” and as she spoke, she applied her hand to here forehead and gave a faint smile of melancholy apprehension.

“Wait, Jane,” said her brother; “just wait for a week or ten days, and if you don’t scold yourself for being now so childish, why never call me brother again.  Sure I understand these things like a philosopher.  I have been three times in love myself.”

Jane looked at him, and a faint sparkle of her usual good nature lit up her countenance.

“Didn’t I tell you,” he proceeded, addressing them—­“look; why I’ll soon have her as merry as a kid.”

“But who were you in love with, William,” asked Agnes.

“I was smitten first with Kate Sharp, the Applewoman, in consideration of her charmin’ method of giving me credit for fruit when I was a school-boy, and had no money.  I thought her a very interesting woman, I assure you, and preferred my suit to her With signal success.  I say signal, for you know she was then, as she is now, very hard of hearing, and I was forced to pay my suit to her by signs.”

“Dear William,” said she, “I see your motive, and love you for it; but it is too soon—­my spirits are not yet in tone for mirth or pleasantry—­but they will be—­they will be.  I know it is too bad to permit an affliction that is merely sentimental to bear me down in this manner; but I cannot help it, and you must all only look on me as a weak, foolish girl, and forgive me, and pity me.  Mamma, I will lie down again, for I feel I am not, well; and oh, papa, if you ever prayed with fervor and sincerity, pray for strength to your own Jane, and happiness to her stricken heart.”

She then retired, and for the remainder of that day confined herself partly to her bed, and altogether to her chamber; and it was observed, that from the innocent caprices of a sickly spirit, she called Agnes, and her mother, and Maria—­sometimes one, and sometimes another—­and had them always about her, each to hear a particular observation that occurred to her, or to ask some simple question, of no importance to any person except to one whose mind had become too sensitive upon the subject which altogether engrossed it.  Towards evening she had a long fit of weeping, after which she appeared more calm and resigned.  She made her mother read her a chapter in the Bible, and expressed a resolution to bear every thing she said as became one she hoped not yet beyond the reach of Divine grace and Christian consolation.