“Can truth, my children, under any circumstances, be injurious to——­”

“Oh no, no, papa,” exclaimed Jane; “I know—­I feel the penalty paid for even the indirect violation of it.”

“In the name of God, then,” exclaimed the well-meaning man, “we will rely upon the good sense and religious principle of our dear Jane, and tell her the whole truth.”

“Henry, dear!” said Mrs. Sinclair in a tone of expostulation.

“Oh papa,” said Agnes, “remember your own words!”

“The truth, my papa, the truth!” said Jane.  “You are its accredited messenger.”

“Jane,” said he, “is your trust strong in the support of the Almighty?”

“I have no other dependence, papa.”

“Then,” said he, “this is the truth:  Charles Osborne has been false to you.  He has broken his vows;—­he is married to another woman.  And now, my child, may the God of truth, and peace, and mercy, sustain and console you!”

“And He will, too, my papa!—­He will!” she exclaimed, rising up;—­“He will!  He will!—­I—­I know—­I think I know something.  I violated truth, and now truth is my punishment.  I violated it to my papa, and now my papa is the medium of that punishment.  Well, then, there’s a Providence proved.  But, in the mean time, mamma, what has become of my beauty?  It is gone—­it is gone—­and now for humility and repentance—­now for sackcloth and ashes.  I am now no longer beautiful!—­so off, off go the trappings of vanity!”

She put her hands up to her bosom, and began to tear down her dress with a violence so powerful, that it took William and Maria’s strength to prevent her.  She became furious.  “Let me go,” she exclaimed, “let me go; I am bound to a curse; but Charles, Charles—­don’t you see he will be poisoned:  he will kiss her lips and be poisoned; poisoned lips for Charles, and I too see it!—­and mine here with balm upon them, and peace and love!  My boy’s lost, and I am lost, and the world has destroyed us.”

She wrought with incredible strength, and attempted still, while speaking, to tear her garments off; put finding herself overpowered, she at length sat down and passed from this state of violence into a mood so helplessly calm, that the family, now in an outcry of grief, with the exception of her father who appeared cool, felt their very hearts shiver at the vacant serenity of her countenance.

Her mother went over, and, seizing her husband firmly by the arms, pulled him towards her, and with an ashy face and parched lips, exclaimed, “There, Charles—­all is now over—­our child is an idiot!”

“Oh do not blame me,” said the brokenhearted father; “I did it for the best.  Had I thought—­had I thought—­but I will speak to her, for I think my voice will reach her heart—­you know how she loved me.”

“Jane,” said he, approaching her, “Jane, my dearest life, will you not speak to your papa?”

She became uneasy again, and, much to their relief, broke silence.