“I wish to rise,” she proceeded, “and to join the morning prayer; until then I shall only dress in my wrapper:  after that I shall dress as becomes me.  I know I have nothing to hope either in this world or the next, consequently pride in me is not a sin:  the measure of my misery has been filled up; and the only interval, of happiness left me, is that between this and death.  Dress me, Agnes.”

The pause arising from the revulsion of feeling, occasioned by the discovery of her settled insanity, was indeed an exemplification of that grief which lies too deep for tears.  Sone of them could weep, but they looked upon her and each other, with a silent agony, which far transcended the power of clamorous sorrow.

“Children,” said her father, whose fortitude, considering the nature of this his great affliction, was worthy of better days; “let us neither look upon our beloved one, nor upon each other.  There,” said he, pointing upwards, “let us look there.  You all know how I loved—­how I love her.  You all know how she loved me; but I cast—­or I strive to cast the burthen, of my affliction upon Him who has borne all for our salvation, and you see I am tearless.  Dress the dear child, Agnes, and as she desires it, let her join us at prayer, and may the Lord who has afflicted us, hearken to our supplications!”

Tenderly and with trembling hands did Agnes dress the beloved girl, and when the fair creature, supported by her two sisters, entered the parlor, never was a more divine picture of beauty seen to shine out of that cloud, with which the mysterious hand of of God had enveloped her.

At prayer she knelt as meekly, and with as much apparent devotion as she had ever done in the days of her most rational and earnest piety.  But it was woful to see the blighted girl go through all the forms of worship, when it was known that the very habit which actuated her resulted from those virtues, which even insanity could not altogether repress.

When they had arisen from their, knees, she again addressed Agnes in a tone of cheerful sweetness, such as she had exhibited in her happier days.

“Agnes, now for our task; and indeed you must perform it with care.  Remember that you are about to dress the most beautiful girl in Europe.  What a fair cast-away am I, Agnes?”

“I hope not a cast-away, Jane; but I shall dress you with care and tenderness, notwithstanding.”

“Every day I must dress in my best, because when Charles returns, you know it will be necessary that I should justify his choice, by appearing as beautiful as possible.”

“Give the innocent her own way,” said her father; “give her, in all that may gratify the child, her own way, where it is not directly wrong to do so.”

Agnes and she then went up to her room, that she might indulge in that harmless happiness, which the fiction of hope had, under the mercy of God, extracted, from the reality of despair.