“And that is Agnes?” she inquired. “Agnes, come near me; and do not be angry, dear Agnes that I die on mamma’s bosom and not on yours.”
Agnes could only seize her pale hand and bathe it in tears. “Angry with you—you living angel—oh, who ever was, or could be, my sister!”
“You all love me too much,” she said. “Maria, it grieves me to see your grief so excessive—William, oh why, why will you weep so? Is it because I am about to leave the pains and sorrows of this unhappy life, and; to enter into peace, that you all grieve thus bitterly. Believe me—and I know this will relieve my papa’s heart—and all your hearts—will it not yours, my mamma?—it is this—your Jane, your own Jane is not afraid to die. Her hopes are fixed on the Rock of Ages—the Rock of her salvation. I know, indeed, that my brief existence has been marked at its close with care and sorrow; but these cares and sorrows have brought me the sooner to that place where all tears shall be wiped from my eyes. Let my fate, too, be a warning to young creatures like myself, never to suffer their affection for any object to overmaster their sense and their reason. I cherished the passion of my heart too much, when I ought to have checked and restrained it—and now, what is the consequence? Why, that I go down in the very flower of my youth to an early grave.”
Agnes caught the dear girl’s hands when she had concluded, and looking with a breaking heart into her face, said—
“And oh, my sister, my sister, are you leaving us—are you leaving us for ever, my sister? Life will be nothing to me, my Jane, without you—how, how will your Agnes live?”
“I doubt we are only disturbing—our cherished one,” said her father. “Let our child’s last moments be calm—and her soul—oh let it not be drawn back from its hopes, to this earth and its affections.”
“Papa, pray for me, and they will join with you—pray for your poor Jane while it is yet time—the prayer of the righteous availeth much.”
Earnest, indeed, and melancholy, was that last prayer offered up on behalf of the departing girl. When it was concluded there was a short silence, as if they wished not to break in upon what they considered the aspirations of the dying sufferer. At length the mother thought she felt her child’s cheek press against her own with a passive weight that alarmed her.
“Jane, my love,” said she, “do you not feel your soul refreshed by your father’s prayer?”
No answer was returned to this, and on looking more closely at her countenance of sorrow, they found that her gentle spirit had risen on the incense of her father’s prayer to heaven. The mother clasped her hands, whilst the head of her departed daughter still lay upon her bosom.