Yet bitter, bitter as all this must have been to their hearts, it was singular to mark, that as the light of her reason receded, a new and solemn feeling of reverence was added to all of love, and sorrow, and pity, that they had hitherto experienced towards her.  Now, too, was her sway over them more commanding, though exercised only in the woeful meekness of a broken heart; for, indeed, there is in the darkness of unmerited affliction, a spirit which elevates its object, and makes unsuffering nature humble in its presence.  Who is there that has a heart, and few, alas, have, that does not feel himself constrained to bend his head with reverence before those who move in the majesty of undeserved sorrow?

Mr. Osborne had not been many days gone, when Jane, one morning after breakfast, desired the family not to separate for about an hour, or if they did, to certainly reassemble within that period.  “And in the meantime,” she said, addressing Agnes, “I want you, my dear Agnes, to assist me at my toilette, as they say.  I am about to dress in my very best, and it cannot, you know, be from vanity, for I have no one now to gratify but yourselves—­come.”

Mr. Sinclair beckoned with his hand to Agnes to attend her, and they accordingly left the room together.

“What is the reason, Agnes,” she said, “that there is so much mystery in this family?  I do not like these nods, and beckonings, and gestures, all so full of meaning.  It grieves me to see my papa, who is the very soul of truth and candor, have recourse to them.  But, alas, why should I blame any of you, when I know that it is from an excess of indulgence to poor Jane, and to avoid giving her pain that you do it?”

“Well, we will not do it any more, love, if it pains or is disagreeable to you.”

“It confounds me, Agnes, it injures my head, and sometimes makes me scarcely know where I am, or who are about me.  I begin to think that there’s some dreadful secret among you; and I think of coffins, and deaths, or of marriages, and wedding favors, and all that.  Now, I can’t bear to think of marriages, but death has something consoling in it; give me death the consoler:  yet,” she added, musing, “we shall not die, but we shall all be changed.”

“Jane, love, may I ask you why you are dressing with such care?”

“When we go down stairs I shall tell you.  It’s wonderful, wonderful!”

“What is, dear?”

“My fortitude.  But those words were prophetic.  I remember well what I felt when I heard them; to be sure he placed them in a different light from what I at first understood them in; but I am handsomer now, I think.  You will be a witness for me below, Agnes, will you not?”

“To be sure, darling.”

“Agnes, where are my tears gone of late?  I think I ought to advertise for them, or advertise for others, ‘Wanted for unhappy Jane Sinclair’”—­

Agnes could bear no more.  “Jane,” she exclaimed, clasping her in her arms, and kissing her smiling lips, for she smiled while uttering the last words, “oh, Jane, don’t, don’t, my darling, or you will break my heart—­your own Agnes’s heart, whom you loved so well, and whose happiness or misery is bound I up in yours.”