“Ariel,” said she one day, speaking to the bird; “there is the yew tree, under which your preserver and I first disclosed our love.  The yew tree, sweet bird, is the emblem of death, and so it will happen; for Charles is dying, I know—­I feel that he will die; and I will die, early; we will both die early; for I would not be able to live here after him, Ariel, and how could I?  Yet I should like to see him once—­once before he dies; to see him, Ariel, in the fulness of his beauty; my eye to rest upon him once more; and then I could die smiling.”

She then sat down under the tree, and in a voice replete with exquisite pathos and melody sang the plaintive air which Osborne had played on the evening when the first rapturous declaration of their passion was made.  This incident with the bird also occurred much about the same hour of the day, a remembrance which an association, uniformly painful to her moral sense, now revived with peculiar power, for she started and became pale.  “My sweet bird,” she exclaimed, “what is this; I shall be absent from evening worship again—­but I will not prevaricate now; why—­why is this spot to be fatal to me?  Come, Ariel, come:  perhaps I may not be late.”

She hastened home with a palpitating heart, and unhappily arrived only in time to find the family rising from prayer.

As she stood and looked upon them, she smiled, but a sudden paleness at the same instant overspread her face, which gave to her smile an expression we are utterly incompetent to describe.

“I am late,” she exclaimed, “and have neglected a solemn and a necessary duty.  To me, to me, papa, how necessary is that duty.”

“It is equally so to us all, my child,” replied her father; “but,” he added, in order to reconcile her to an omission which had occasioned her to suffer so much pain before, “we did not forget to pray for you, Jane.  With respect to your absence, we know it was unintentional.  Your mind is troubled, my love, and do not, let me beg of you, dwell upon minor points of that kind, so as to interrupt the singleness of heart with which you ought to address God.  You know, darling, you can pray in your own room.”

She mused for some minutes, and at length said, “I would be glad to preserve that singleness of heart, but I fear I will not be able to do so long.”

“If you would stay more with us, darling,” observed her mamma, “and talk and chat more with Maria and Agnes, as you used to do, you would find your spirits improved.  You are not so cheerful as we would wish to see you.”

“Perhaps I ought to do that, mamma; indeed I know I ought, because you wish it.”

“We all wish it,” said Agnes, “Jane dear, why keep aloof from us?  Who in the world loves you as we do; and why would you not, as you used to do, allow us to cheer you, to support you, or to mourn and weep with you; anything—­anything,” said the admirable girl, “rather than keep your heart from ours;” and as she spoke, the tears fell fast down her cheeks.