Part 3 (1/2)

”I know, my dear, you were; but although you have frequently been out walking, yet I do not remember that you ever stayed, away from our evening wors.h.i.+p before. Why is this?”

Her father's question was repeated in vain. She hung her head and returned no answer. She tried to speak, but from her parched lips not a word could proceed. She felt as if all the family that moment were conscious of the occurrence between her and her lover; and if the wish could have relieved her, she would almost have wished to die, so much did she shrink abashed in their presence.

”Tell me, my daughter,” proceeded her father, more seriously, ”has your absence been occasioned by anything that you are ashamed or afraid to mention? From me, Jane, you ought to have no secrets;--you are yet too young to think away from your father's heart and from your mother's also;--speak candidly, my child,--speak candidly,--I expect it.”

As he uttered the last words, the head of their beautiful flower sank upon her bosom, and in a moment she lay insensible upon the sofa on which she had been sitting.

This was a shock for which neither the father nor the family were prepared. William flew to her,--all of them crowded about her, and scarcely had he raised that face so pale, but now so mournfully beautiful in its insensibility, when her mother and sisters burst into tears and wailings, for they feared at the moment that their beloved one must have been previously seized with sudden illness, and was then either taken, or about to be taken from their eyes for ever. By the coolness of her father, however, they were directed how to restore her, in which, after a lapse of not less than ten minutes, they succeeded.

When she recovered, her mother folded her in her arms, and her sisters embraced her with tenderness and tears. Her father then gently caught her hand in his, and said with much affection:

”Jane, my child, you are ill. Why not have told us so?”

The beautiful girl knelt before him for a moment, but again rose up, and hiding her head in his bosom, exclaimed--weeping--

”Papa, bless me, oh, bless me, and forgive me.”

”I do; I do,” said the old man; and as he spoke a few large tears trickled down his cheeks, and fell upon her golden locks.

PART II.

It is a singular fact, but one which we know to be true, that not only the affection of parents, but that of brothers and sisters, goes down with greater tenderness to the youngest of the family, all other circ.u.mstances being equal. This is so universally felt and known, that it requires no further ill.u.s.tration from us. At home, Jane Sinclair was loved more devotedly in consequence of being the most innocent and beautiful of her father's children; in addition to this, however, she was cherished with that peculiar sensibility of attachment by which the human heart is always swayed towards its youngest and its last.

On witnessing her father's tenderness, she concealed her face in his bosom, and wept for some time in silence, and by a gentle pressure of her delicate arms, as they encircled his neck, intimated her sense of his affectionate indulgence towards her; and perhaps, could it have been understood, a tacit acknowledgment of her own unworthiness on that occasion to receive it.

At length, she said, after an effort to suppress her tears, ”Papa, I will go to bed.”

”Do, my love; and Jane, forget not to address the Throne of G.o.d before you sleep.”

”I did not intend to neglect it, papa. Mamma, come with me.” She then kissed her sisters and bade good-night to William; after which she withdrew, accompanied by her mother, whilst the eyes of those who remained were fixed upon her with love and pride and admiration.

”Mamma,” said she, when they reached the apartment, ”allow me to sleep alone tonight.”

”Jane, your mind appears to be depressed, darling,” replied her mother; ”has anything disturbed you, or are you really ill?”

”I am quite well, mamma, and not at all depressed; but do allow me to sleep in the closet bed.”

”No, my dear, Agnes will sleep there, and you can sleep in your own as usual; the poor girl will wonder why you leave her, Jane; she will feel so lonely, too.”

”But, mamma, it would gratify me very much, at least for this night. I never wished to sleep away from Agnes before; and I am certain she will excuse me when she knows I prefer it.”

”Well, my love, of course Jean have no objection; I only fear you are not so well as you imagine yourself. At all events, Jane, remember your father's advice to pray to G.o.d; and remember this, besides, that from me at least you ought to have no secrets. Good-night, dear, and may the Lord take care of you!”

She then kissed her with an emotion of sorrow for which she could scarcely account, and pa.s.sed down to the room wherein the other members of the family were a.s.sembled.

”I know not what is wrong with her,” she observed, in reply to their enquiries. ”She declares she is perfectly well, and that her mind is not at all depressed.”

”In that I agree with her,” said William; ”her eye occasionally sparkled with something that resembled joy more than depression.”