“I cannot, I cannot, papa, I dare not,” she exclaimed, and without uttering another word she arose, and rushed out of the room. In less than a minute, however, she returned again, and approaching him, said—“Papa, forgive me, I will, I trust, soon be a better girl than I am; bless me and bid me good-night. Mamma, bless me you too, I am your poor Jane, and I know you all love me more than you ought. Do not think that I am unhappy—don’t think it. I have not been for some time so happy as I am to-night.”
She then passed out of the room, and retired to her own apartment.
When she was gone, Agnes, who sat beside | her father, turned to him, and leaned her I head upon his breast, burst into bitter tears. “Papa,” she exclaimed, “I believe you will now admit that I have gained the victory. My sister’s peace of mind or happiness is gone for ever. Unless Osborne either now is, or becomes in time attached to her, I know not what the consequences may be.”
“It will be well for Osborne, at all events, if he has not practised upon her affections,” said William; “that is, granting that the suspicion, be just. But the truth is, I don’t think Osborne has any thing to do with her feelings. It is merely some imaginary trifle that she has got into her foolish little head, poor girl. Don’t distress yourself, father—you know she was always over-scrupulous. Even the most harmless fib that ever was told, is a crime in her eyes. I wish, for my part, she had a little wholesome wickedness about—I don’t mean that sir, in a very unfavorable light,” he said in reply to a look of severity from his father, “but I wish she had some leaning to error about her. She would, in one sense at least, be the better for it.”
“We shall see,” said his father, who evidently spoke in deep distress of mind, “we shall consider in the course of the evening what ought to be done.”
“Better to take her gently,” observed her mother, wiping away a tear, “gentleness and love will make her tell anything—and that there is something on her mind no one can doubt.”
“I won’t have her distressed, my dear,” replied her father. “It cannot be of much importance I think after all—but whatever it may be, her own candid mind will give it forth spontaneously. I know my child, and will answer for her.”
“Why then, papa, are you so much distressed, if you think it of no importance?” asked Maria.
“If her finger ached, it would distress me, child, and you know it.”
“Why, she and Osborne have had no opportunity of being together, out of the eyes of the family,” observed William.