“He has not come,” said she; “but I can wait—­I can wait—­it will teach my heart to be patient.”

She then clasped her hands, and sitting down under the shade of the yew tree, mused and murmured to herself alternately, but in such an evident spirit of desolation and despair, as made her father fear that her heart would literally break down under the heavy burden of her misery.  When she had sat here nearly an hour, he approached her and gently taking her hand, which felt as cold as marble, said—­

“Will you not come home, darling?  Your mamma is anxious you should return to her.  Come,” and he attempted gently to draw her with him.

“I can wait, I can wait,” she replied, “if he should come and find me gone, he would break his heart—­I can wait.”

“Oh do not droop, my sweet sister; do not droop so much; all will yet be well,” said Agnes, weeping.

“I care for none but him—­to me there is only one being in life—­all else is a blank; but he will not come, and is it not too much, to try the patience of a heart so fond and faithful.”

“It is not likely he will come to-day,” replied Agnes; “something has prevented him; but to-morrow—­”

“I will seek him elsewhere,” said Jane, rising suddenly; “but is it not singular, and indeed to what strange passes things may come?  A young lady seeking her lover!—­not over-modest certainly—­nay, positively indelicate—­fie upon me!  Why should I thus expose myself?  It is unworthy of my father’s daughter, and Jane Sinclair will not do it.”

She then walked a few paces homewards, but again stopped and earnestly looked in every direction, as if expecting to see the object of her love.  Long indeed did she linger about a spot so dear to her; and often did she sit down again and rise to go—­sometimes wringing her hands in the muteness of sorrow, and sometimes exhibiting a sense of her neglect in terms of pettish and indirect censure against Osborne for his delay.  It was in one of those capricious moments that she bent her steps homewards; and as she had again to pass that part of the river where the accident occurred to the dove, Agnes and her father observed that she instinctively put her hand to her shoulder, and appeared as if disappointed.  On this occasion, however, she made no observation whatever, but, much to their satisfaction, mechanically proceeded towards Springvale House, which she reached without uttering another word.

Until a short time before the arrival of Dr. M’Cormick, this silence remained unbroken.  She sat nearly in the same attitude, evidently pondering on something that excited great pain, as was observable by her frequent startings, and a disposition to look wildly about her, as if with an intention of suddenly speaking.  These, however, passed quickly away, and she generally relapsed into her wild and unsettled reveries.

When the doctor arrived, he sat with her in silence for a considerable time—­listening to her incoherencies from an anxiety to ascertain, as far as possible, by what she might utter, whether her insanity was likely to be transient or otherwise.  The cause of it he had already heard from report generally, and a more exact and circumstantial account on that day from her brother William.