This letter, the brief contents of which we have given, his father submitted to Mr. Sinclair, whose reply was indeed characteristic of the exalted Christian, who can forget his own injury in the distress of his enemy.

“Let him come,” said the old man; “our resentments have long since passed away, and why should not yours?  He has now a higher interest to look to than any arising from either love or ambition.  His immortal soul is at stake, and if we can reconcile him to heaven, the great object of existence will after all be secured.  God forbid that our injuries should stand in the way of his salvation.  Allow me,” he added, “to bring this letter home, that I may read it to my family, with one exception of course.  Alas! it contains an instructive lesson.”

This was at once acceded to by the other, and they separated.

When William heard the particulars of Osborne’s melancholy position, he of course gave up the hostility of his purpose, and laid before his friend a history of the circumstances connected with his brief and unhappy career.

“He is now a dying man,” said William, “to whom this life, its idle forms and unmeaning usages, are as nothing, or worse than nothing.  A higher tribunal than the guilty spirit of this world’s honor will demand satisfaction from him for his baseness towards unhappy Jane.  To that tribunal I leave him; but whether he live or die, I will never look upon my insane sister, without thinking of him as a villain, and detesting his very name and memory.”

If these sentiments be considered ungenerous, let it be remembered that they manifested less his resentment to Osborne, than the deep and elevated affection which he bore his sister, for whose injuries he felt much more indignantly than he would have done for his own.

Jane, however, from this period forth began gradually to break down, and her derangement, though still inoffensive and harmless, assumed a more anxious and melancholy expression.  This might arise, to be sure, from the depression of spirits occasioned by a decline of health.  But from whatever cause it proceeded, one thing was evident, that an air of deep dejection settled upon her countenance and whole deportment.  She would not, for instance, permit Agnes in their desultory rambles to walk by her side, but besought her to attend at a distance behind her.

“I wish to be alone, dear Agnes,” she said, “but notwithstanding that, I do not wish to be without you.  I might have been some time ago the Queen of beauty, but now, Agnes, I am the Queen of Sorrow.”

“You have had your share of sorrow, my poor stricken creature,” replied Agnes, heavily.

“But there is, Agnes, a melancholy beauty in sorrow—­it is so sweet to be sad.  Did. you ever see a single star in the sky, Agnes?”

“Yes, love, often.”

“Well, that is like sorrow, or rather that is like me.  Does it not always seem to mourn, and to mourn alone, but the moment that another star arises then the spell is broken, and it seems no more to mourn in the solitude of heaven.”