“Would to heaven that you had not, my dear Henry.  Let us try, however, and move her heart,—­if tears could come she would be relieved.”

“Bring Agnes in,” said her father, “bring in Agnes, she may succeed better with her than we can,—­and if Charles be not already gone, there is no use in distressing him by at all alluding to her situation.  She is only overpowered, I trust, and will soon recover.”  The mother, on her way to bring Agnes to her sister, met the rest of the family returning to the house after having taken leave of Osborne.  The two girls were weeping, for they looked upon him as already a brother; whilst William, in a good-humored tone, bantered them for the want of firmness.

“I think, mother,” said he, “they are all in love with him, if they would admit it.  Why here’s Maria and Agnes, and I dare say they’re making as great a rout about him as Jane herself!  But bless me! what’s the, matter, mother, that you look so pale and full of alarm?”

“It’s Jane—­it’s Jane,” said Agnes.  “Mother, there’s something wrong!” and as she spoke she stopped, with uplifted hands, apparently fastened to the earth.

“My poor child!” exclaimed her mother,—­“for heaven’s sake come in, Agnes.  Oh, heaven grant that it may soon pass away.  Agnes, dear girl, you know her best—­come in quick; her papa wants you to try what you can do with her.”

In a moment this loving family, with pale faces and beating hearts, stood in a circle about their affectionate and beautiful sister.  Jane sat with her passive hand tenderly pressed between her father’s,—­smiling; but whether in unconscious happiness or unconscious misery, who alas! can say?

“You see she knows none of us,” said her mother.  “Neither her papa nor me.  Speak to her each of you, in turn.  Perhaps you may be more successful.  Agnes,—­”

“She will know me,” replied Agnes; “I am certain she will know me;”—­and the delightful girl spoke with an energy that was baaed upon the confidence of that love which subsisted between them.  Maria and her brother both burst into tears; but Agnes’s affection rose above the mood of ordinary grief.  The confidence that her beloved sister’s tenderness for her would enable her to touch a chord in a heart so utterly her own as Jane’s was, assumed upon this occasion the character of a wild but mournful enthusiasm, that was much more expressive of her attachment than could be the loudest and most vehement sorrow.

“If she could but shed tears,” said her mother, wringing her hands.

“She will,” returned Agnes, “she will.  Jane,” she exclaimed, “Jane, don’t you know your own Agnes?—­your own Agnes, Jane?”

The family waited in silence for half a minute, but their beloved one smiled on, and gave not the slightest token of recognizing either Agnes’s person or her voice.  Sometimes her lips moved, and she appeared to be repeating certain words to herself, but in a voice so low and indistinct that no one could catch them.