“Where is who, love?” said her mother.

“Where is he?—­why does he not come?—­something more than usual must prevent him, or he would not stay away so long from ’his own Jane Sinclair.’  But I forgot; bless me, how feeble my memory is growing!  Why this is the hour of our appointment, and I will be late unless I hurry—­for who could give so gentle and affectionate a being as Charles pain?”

She immediately put on her bonnet, and was about to go abroad, when her father, gently laying his hand upon her arm, said, in a kind but admonitory voice, in which was blended a slightly perceptible degree of parental authority—­

“My daughter, surely you will not go out—­you are unwell.”

She started slightly, paused, and looked as if trying to remember something that she had forgotten.  The struggle, however, was vain—­her recollection proved too weak for the task it had undertaken.  After a moment’s effort, she smiled sweetly in her father’s face, and said—­

“You would not have me break my appointment, nor give poor Charles pain, and his health, moreover, so delicate.  You know he would die rather than give me a moment’s anxiety.  Die!—­see that again—­I know not what puts death into my head so often.”

“Henry,” said her mother, “it is probably better to let her have her own way for the present—­at least until Dr. M’Cormick arrives.  You and Agnes can accompany her, perhaps she may be the better for it.”

“I cannot refuse her,” said the old man; “at all events, I agree with you; there can, I think, be no possible harm in allowing her to go.  Come, Agnes, we must, alas! take care of her.”

She then went out, they walking a few paces behind her, and proceeded down the valley which we have already described in the opening of this story, until she came to the spot at the river, where she first met Osborne.  Here she involuntarily stood a moment, and putting her hand to her right shoulder, seemed to miss some object, that was obviously restored to her recollection by an association connected with the place.  She shook her head, and sighed several times, and then exclaimed—­

“Ungrateful bird, does it neglect me too?”

Her father pressed Agnes’s arm with a sensation of joy, but spoke not lest his voice might disturb her, or break the apparent continuity of her reviving memory.  She seemed to think, however, that she delayed here too long, for without taking further notice of anything she hurried on to the spot where the first disclosure of their loves had taken place.  On reaching it she looked anxiously and earnestly around the copse or dell in which the yew tree, with its turf seat stood.

[Illustration:  Page 52—­ How is this?—­how is this?—­he is not here!]

“How is this?—­how is this?”—­she murmured to herself, “he is not here!”

Both her father and Agnes observed that during the whole course of the unhappy but faithful girl’s love, they never had witnessed such a concentrated expression of utter woe and sorrow as now impressed themselves upon her features.