These letters induced a series of sensations at once novel and delightful, and such as were calculated to give zest to an attachment thus left, to support itself, not from the presence of its object, but from the memory of tenderness that had already gone by.  She knew Charles Osborne only as a boy—­a beautiful boy it is true—­and he knew her only as a graceful creature, whose extremely youthful appearance made it difficult whether to consider her merely as an advanced girl, or as a young female who had just passed into the first stage of womanhood.  But now her fancy and affection had both room to indulge in that vivacious play which delights to paint a lover absent under such circumstances in the richest hues of imaginary beauty.

“How will he look,” she would say to her sister Agnes, “when he returns a young man, settled into the fulness of his growth?  Taller he will be, and much more manly in his deportment.  But is there no danger, Agnes, of his losing in grace, in delicacy of complexion, in short, of losing in beauty what he may gain otherwise?”

“No, my dear, not in the least; you will be ten times prouder of him after his return than you ever were.  There is something much more noble and dignified in the love of a man than in that of a boy, and you will feel this on seeing him.”

“In that case, Agnes, I shall have to fall in love with him over again, and to fall in love with the same individual twice, will certainly be rather a novel case—­a double passion, at least, you will grant, Agnes.”

“But he will experience sensations quite as singular on seeing you, when he returns.  You are as much changed—­improved I mean—­in your person, as he can be for his life.  If he is now a fine, full-grown young man, you are a tall, elegant—­I don’t, want to flatter you, Jane,—­I need not say graceful, for that you always were, but I may add with truth, a majestic young woman.  Why, you will scarcely know each other.”

“You do flatter me, Agnes; but am I so much improved?”

“Indeed you are quite a different girl from what you were when he saw you.”

“I am glad of it; but as I told him once, it is on his account that I am so glad; do you know, Agnes, I never was vain of my beauty until I saw Charles?”

“Did you ever feel proud in being beautiful in the eyes of another, Jane?”

“No, I never did—­why should I?”

“Well, that is not vanity—­it is only love visible in a different aspect, and not the least amiable either, my dear.”

“Well, I should be much more melancholy than I am, were not my fancy so often engaged in picturing to myself the change which may be on him when he returns.  The feeling it occasions is novel and agreeable, sometimes, indeed, delightful, and so far sustains me when I am inclined to be gloomy.  But believe me, Agnes, I could love Charles Osborne even if he were not handsome.  I could love him for his mind, his principles, and especially for his faithful and constant heart.”