“Now, my children,” said the white-haired father, summoning all the fortitude of a Christian man to his aid,—­“now must we show ourselves not ignorant of those resources which the religion of Christ opens to all who are for His wise purposes grievously and heavily afflicted.  Let us act as becomes the dignity of our faith.  We must suffer:  let it be with patience, and a will resigned to that which laid the calamity upon us,—­and principally upon the beloved mourner who is dear, dear—­and oh! how justly is she dear to all our hearts!  Be firm, my children—­and neither speak, nor look, nor act as if these heavy tidings had reached us.  This is not only our duty, but our wisest course under circumstances so distressing as ours.  Another letter from Mr. Osborne will decide all and until then we must suffer in silent reliance upon the mercy of God.  It may, however, be a consolation to you all to know, that if this young man’s heart be detached from that of our innocent and loving child, I would rather—­the disposing will of God being still allowed—­see her wrapped in the cerements of death than united to one, who with so little scruple can trample upon the sanctions of religion, or tamper with the happiness of a fellow-creature.  Oh, may God of His mercy sustain our child, and bear her in His own right hand through this heavy woe!”

This affecting admonition did not fall upon them in vain,—­for until the receipt of Mr, Osborne’s letter from London, not even Jane, with all her vigilance, was able to detect in their looks or manner any change or expression beyond what she had usually noticed.  That letter at length arrived, and, as they had expected, filled up the measure of Osborne’s dishonor and their affliction.  The contents were brief but fearful.  Mr. Osborne stated that he arrived in London on the second day after his son’s marriage, and found, to his unutterable distress, that he and his fashionable wife had departed for the continent on the very day the ceremony took place.

“I could not,” proceeded his father, “wrench my heart so suddenly out of the strong affection it felt for the hope of my past life, as to curse him; but, from this day forward I disown him as my son.  You know not, my friend, what I feel, and what I suffer; for he who was the pride of my declining years has, by this act of unprincipled ambition, set his seal to the unhappiness of his father.  I am told, indeed, that the lady is very beautiful—­and amiable as she is beautiful—­and that their passion for each other amounts to idolatry;—­but neither her beauty, nor her wealth, nor her goodness could justify my son in an act of such cruel and abandoned perfidy to a creature who seems to be more nearly related to the angelic nature than the human.”

“You see, my children,” observed Mr. Sinclair, “that the worst, as far as relates to Osborne, is before us.  I have nothing now to add to what I have already said on the receipt of the letter from Bath.  You know your duty, and with God’s assistance I trust you will act up to it.  At present it might be fatal to our child were she to know what has happened; nor, indeed, are we qualified to break the matter to her, without the advice of some medical man, eminent in cases similar to that which afflicts her.”