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.

Agnes's enthusiasm abandoned her on seeing that that voice to which her
own dearest sister ever sweetly and lovingly responded, fell upon her
ear as an idle and unmeaning sound. Her face became deadly pale, and her
lip quivered, as she again addressed the unconscious girl. Once more she
took her hand in hers, and placing herself before her, put her fingers
to her cheek in order to arrest her attention.

"Jane, look upon me; look upon me;--that's a sweet child,--look upon me.
Sure I am Agnes--your own Agnes, who will break her heart if my sweet
sister doesn't speak to her."

The stricken one raised her head, and looked into her face; but it was,
alas! too apparent that she saw her not; for the eye, though smiling,
was still vacant. Again her lips moved, and she spoke so as to be
understood towards the door through which she had entered.

"Yes," she exclaimed, in the same low, placid voice, "yes, he is
beautiful! Is he not beautiful? Fatal beauty!--fatal beauty! It is a
fatal thing--it is a fatal thing!--but he is very, very beautiful!"

"Jane," said Maria, taking her hand from Agnes's, "Jane, speak to Maria,
dear. Am not I, too, your own Maria? that loves you not less than--my
darling, darling child--they do not live that love you better than your
own Maria;--in pity, darling, in pity speak to me!"

The only reply was a smile, that rose into the murmuring music of a low
laugh; but this soon ceased, her cou