“Your pardon, dearest madam,” cried the other, fearfully.
“Nay, you have given me no offence,” returned Jane, kindly. “What I meant was that I had not time to find my husband.”
“Oh you will find him, dearest madam,” returned Angela, “doubt it not. Your prayers would wash out his offences, even if his own could not.”
“I trust so,” replied Jane. “And I will now pray for him, and do you pray too.”
Jane then retired to the recess, and in the gloom, for it was yet dark, continued her devotions until the clock struck seven. She then arose, and assisted by Angela attired herself with great care.
“I pay more attention to the decoration of my body now I am about to part with it,” she observed, “than I would do, if it was to serve me longer. So joyful is the occasion to me, that were I to consult my own feelings, I would put on my richest apparel to indicate my contentment of heart. I will not, however, so brave my fate, but array myself in these weeds.” And she put on a gown of black velvet, without ornament of any kind; tying round her slender throat (so soon alas! to be severed) a simple white falling collar. Her hair was left purposely unbraided, and was confined by a caul of black velvet. As Angela performed those sad services, she sobbed audibly.
“Nay, cheer thee, child,” observed Jane. “When I was clothed in the robes of royalty, and had the crown placed upon my brow,—nay, when arrayed on my wedding-day,—I felt not half so joyful as now.”
“Ah! madam!” exclaimed Angela, in a paroxysm of grief. “My condition is more pitiable than yours. You go to certain happiness. But I lose you.”
“Only for a while, dear Angela,” returned Jane. “Comfort yourself with that thought. Let my fate be a warning to you. Be not dazzled by ambition. Had I not once yielded, I had never thus perished. Discharge your duty strictly to your eternal and your temporal rulers, and rest assured we shall meet again,—never to part.”
“Your counsel shall be graven on my heart, madam,” returned Angela. “And oh! may my end be as happy as yours!”