He found her sitting upon the bank of the river which we have already described, and exactly opposite to the precise spot in the stream from which Osborne had rescued Ariel.  The bird sat on her shoulder, and he saw by her gesture that she was engaged in an earnest address to it.  He came on gently behind her, actuated by that kind curiosity which knows that in such unguarded moments a key may possibly be obtained to the abrupt and capricious impulse by which persons laboring under impressions so variable may be managed.

[Illustration:  Page 44—­ Spot which would have been fatal to you]

“I will beat you, Ariel,” said she, “I will beat you—­fie upon you.  You an angel of light—­no, no—­have I not often pointed you out the spot which would have been fatal to you, were it not for him—­for him!  Stupid bird! there it is! do you not see it?  No, as I live, your eye is turned up sideways towards me, instead of looking at it, as if you asked why, dear mistress, do you scold me so?  And indeed I do not know, Ariel.  I scarcely know—­but oh, my dear creature, if you knew—­if you knew—­it is well you don’t.  I am here—­so are you—­but where is he?”

She was then silent for a considerable time, and sat with her head on her hand.  William could perceive that she sighed deeply.

He advanced; and on hearing his foot she started, looked about, and on seeing him, smiled.

“I am amusing myself, William,” said she.

“How, my dear Jane—­how?”

“Why, by the remembrance of my former misery.  You know that the recollection of all past happiness is misery to the miserable—­is it not? but of that you are no judge, William—­you were never miserable.”

“Nor shall you be so, Jane, longer than until Charles returns; but touching your second plan of resignation, love.  I don’t understand how death could be resignation.”

“Do you not? then I will tell you.  Should Charles prove false to me—­that would break my heart.  I should die, and then—­then—­do you not see—­comes Death, the consoler.”

“I see, dear sister; but there will be no necessity for that.  Charles will be, and is, faithful and true to you.  Will you come home with me, dear Jane?”

“At present I cannot, William; I have places to see and things to think of that are pleasant to me.  I may almost say so; because as I told you they amuse me.  Let misery have its mirth, William; the remembrance of past happiness is mine.”

“Jane, if you love me come home with me now?”

“If I do.  Ah, William, that’s ungenerous.  You are well aware that I do, and so you use an argument which you know I won’t resist.  Come,” addressing the dove, “we must go; we are put upon our generosity; for of course we do love poor William.  Yes, we will go, William; it is better, I believe.”

She then took his arm, and both walked home without speaking another word; Jane having relapsed into a pettish silence which her brother felt it impossible to break without creating unnecessary excitement in a mind already too much disturbed.