“And for all these he would deserve your love; but you remember what you told me once:  it seems he has not yet seen a girl that he thinks more handsome than you are.  Did you not mention to me that he said when he did, he would cease to write to you and cease to love you?  You see he is constant.”

“Yes; but did I not tell you the sense in which he meant it?”

“Yes; and now you throw a glance at yourself in the glass!  Oh Jane, Jane, the best of us and the freest from imperfection is not without a little pride and vanity; but don’t be too confident, my saucy beauty; consider that you complained to William yesterday, about the unusual length of time that has elapsed since you received his last letter, and yet he could, write to his fa——­ What, what, dear girl, what’s the matter? you are as pale as death.”

“Because, Agnes, I never think of that but my heart and spirits sink.  It has been one of the secret causes of my occasional depressions ever since he went.  I cannot tell why, but from the moment the words were spoken, I have not been without a presentiment of evil.”

“Even upon your own showing, Jane, that is an idle and groundless impression, and unworthy the affection which you know, and which we all know he bears you; dismiss it, dear Jane, dismiss it, and do not give yourself the habit of creating imaginary evils.”

“I know I am prone to such a habit, and am probably too much of a visionary for my own happiness; but setting that gloomy presentiment aside, have you not, Agnes, been struck with several hints in his letters, both to me and his father, unfavorable to the state of his health.”

“That you will allow, could not be very ill, when he was able to continue his travels.”

“True, but according to his own admission his arrangements were frequently broken up, by the fact of his being ‘unwell,’ and ’not in a condition to travel,’ and so did not reach the places in time to which he had requested me to direct many of my letters.  I fear, Agnes, that his health has not been so much improved by the air of the continent as we hoped it would.”

“I have only to say this, Jane, that if he does not appreciate your affection as he ought to do, then God forgive him.  He will be guilty of a crime against the purest attachment of the best of hearts, as well as against truth and honor.  I hope he may be worthy of you, and I am sure he will.  He is now in Bath, however, and will soon be with us.”

“I am divided, Agnes, by two principles—­if they may be called such—­or if you will, by two moods of mind, or states of feeling; one of them is faith and trust in his affection—­how can I doubt it?—­the other is malady, I believe, a gloom, an occasional despondency for which I cannot account, and which I am not able to shake off.  My faith and trust, however, will last, and his return will dispel the other.”