“Dear Agnes,” said Jane, putting her arm about her sister’s neck, and looking up mournfully into her face; “I cannot weep for myself—­I cannot weep even with you; you know I love you—­how I love you—­oh, how I love you all; but I cannot tell why it is—­society, even the society of them I love best, disturbs me, and you know not the pleasure—­melancholy I grant it to be, but you know not the pleasure that comes to me from solitude.  To me—­to me there is a charm in it ten times more soothing to my heart than all the power of human consolation.”

“But why so melancholy at all, Jane,” said Maria, “surely there is no just cause for it.”

She smiled as she replied, “Why am I melancholy, Maria?—­why? why should I not?  Do I not read the approaching death of Charles Osborne in the gloom of every countenance about me?  Why do you whisper to each other that which you will not let me hear?  Why is there a secret and anxious, and a mysterious intercourse between this family and his, of the purport of which I am kept ignorant—­and I alone?”

“But suppose Charles Osborne is not sick,” said William; “suppose he was never in better health than he is at this moment—­” he saw his father’s hand raised, and paused, then added, carelessly, “for supposition’s sake I say merely.”

“But you must not suppose that, William,” she replied, starting, “unless you wish to blight your sister.  On what an alternative then, would you force a breaking heart.  If not sick, if not dying, where is he?  I require him—­I demand him.  My heart,” she proceeded, rising up and speaking with vehemence—­“my heart calls for him—­shouts aloud in its agony—­shouts aloud—­shouts aloud for him.  He is, he is sick; the malady of his family is upon him; he is ill—­he is dying; it must be so; ay, and it shall be so; I can bear that, I can bear him to die, but never to become faithless to a heart like mine.  But I am foolish,” she added, after a pause, occasioned by exhaustion; “Oh, my dear William, why, by idle talk, thus tamper with your poor affectionate sister’s happiness?  I know you meant no harm, but oh, William, William, do it no more.”

“I only put it, dear Jane, I only put it as a mere case,”—­the young man was evidently cut to the heart, and could not for some moments speak.

She saw his distress, and going over to him, took his hand and. said, “Don’t, William, don’t; it is nothing but merely one of your good-humored attempts to make your sister cheerful.  There,” she added, kissing his cheek; “there is a kiss for you; the kiss of peace let it be, and forgiveness; but I have nothing to forgive you for, except too much affection for an unhappy sister, who, I believe, is likely to be troublesome enough to you all; but, perhaps not long—­not long.”

There were few dry eyes in the room, as she uttered the last words.

“I do not like to see you weep,” she added, “when I could have wept myself, and partaken of your tears, it was rather a relief to me than otherwise.  It seems, however, that my weeping days are past; do not, oh do not—­you trouble me, and I want to compose my mind for a performance of the solemn act which I have this evening neglected.  Mamma, kiss me, and pray for me; I love you well and tenderly, mamma; I am sure you know I do.”