“Don’t you think, papa,” observed Miss Sinclair, “that there is a striking resemblance between young Osborne and Jane?  I could not help remarking it.”

“There decidedly is, Maria, now that you mentioned it,” said William.

The father paused a little, as if to consider the matter, and then added with a smile—­

“It is very singular, Mary; but indeed I think there is—­both in the style of their features and their figure.”

“Osborne is too handsome for a man,” observed Agnes; “yet, after all, one can hardly say so, his face, though fine, is not feminine.”

“Beauty, my children!—­alas, what is it?  Often—­too often, a fearful, a fatal gift.  It is born with us, and not of our own merit; yet we are vain enough to be proud of it.  It is at best a flower that soon fades—­a light that soon passes away.  Oh! what is it when contrasted with those high principles whose beauty is immortal, which brighten by age, and know neither change nor decay.  There is Jane—­my poor child—­she is indeed very beautiful and graceful, yet I often fear that her beauty, joined as it is to an over-wrought sensibility, may, before her life closes, occasion much sorrow either to herself or others.”

“She is all affection,” said William.

“She is all love, all tenderness, all goodness; and may the grace of her Almighty Father keep her from the wail and woe which too often accompany the path of beauty in this life of vicissitude and trial.”

A tear of affection for his beautiful child stood in the old man’s eyes as he raised them to heaven, and the loving hearts of his family burned with tenderness towards this their youngest and best beloved sister.

The sun had now gone down, and, after a short pause, the old man desired William to summon the other members of the household in to prayers.  The evening worship being concluded, the youngsters walked in the lawn before the door until darkness began to set in, after which they retired to their respective apartments for the night.

Sweet and light be your slumbers, O ye that are peaceful and good—­sweet be your slumbers on this night so calm and beautiful; for, alas, there is one among you into whose I innocent bosom has stolen that destroying spirit which will yet pale her fair cheek, and wring many a bitter tear from the eyes that love to look upon her.  Her early sorrows have commenced this night, and for what mysterious purpose who can divine?—­but, alas, alas, her fate is sealed—­the fawn of Springvale is stricken, and even now carries in her young heart a wound that will never close.

Osborne’s father, who had succeeded to an estate of one thousand per annum, was the eldest son of a gentleman whose habits were badly calculated to improve the remnant of property which ancestral extravagance had left him.