“It is difficult,” he at length said, “to form anything like an exact opinion upon the first attack of insanity, arising from a disappointment of the heart.  Much depends upon the firmness of the general character, and the natural force of their common sense.  If I were to judge, not only by what I have heard from this most beautiful and interesting creature, as well as from the history of her heart, which her brother gave me so fully, I would say that I think this attack will not be a long one.  I am of opinion that her mind is in a state of transition not from reason but to it; and that this transition will not be complete without much physical suffering.  The state of her pulse assures me of this, as does the coldness of her hands.  I should not be surprised if, in the course of this very night she were attacked with strong fits.  These, if they take place, will either restore her to reason or confirm her insanity.  Poor girl,” said the amiable man, looking on her whilst his eyes filled with tears, “he must have been a heartless wretch to abandon such a creature.  My dear Jane,” he added, addressing her, for he had been, and still is, familiar with the family; “I am sorry to find you are so unwell, but you will soon be bettor.  Do you not know me.”

“It was sworn,” said the unhappy mourner; “it was sworn and I felt this here—­here “—­and she placed her hand upon her heart; “I felt this little tenant of my poor bosom sink—­sink, and my blood going from my cheeks when the words were uttered.  More beautiful! more beautiful! why, and what is love if it is borne away merely by beauty?  I loved him not for his beauty alone.  I loved him because he—­he—­because he loved me—­but at first I did love him for his beauty; well, he has found another more beautiful; and his own Jane Sinclair, his Fawn of Springvale, as he used to call me, is forgotten.  But mark me—­let none dare to blame him—­he only fulfilled his destined part—­the thing was foredoomed, and I knew that by my suppression of the truth to my papa, the seal of reprobation was set to my soul.  Then—­then it was that I felt myself a cast-away!  And indeed,” she added, rising up and laying the forefinger of her right hand, on the palm of her left, “I would at any time sacrifice myself for his happiness; I would; yet alas,” she added, sitting down and hanging her head in sorrow; “why—­why is it that I am so miserable, when he is happy?  Why is that, Miss Jane Sinclair—­why is that?” She then sighed deeply, and added in a tone of pathos almost irresistible—­“Oh that I had the wings of a dove, that I might flee away and be at rest.”

She had scarcely spoken, when, by a beautiful and affecting coincidence, Ariel entered the room, and immediately flew into her bosom.  She put her hand up and patted it for some time rather unconsciously than otherwise.

“Ah, you foolish bird,” she at length said; “have you no better place of rest, no calmer spot to repose upon, than a troubled and a broken heart?”