With a scrupulous attention to her father's precept, as well as from a
principle of early and sincere piety, she strove on reaching her bedroom
to compose her mind in prayer, and to beg the pardon of Heaven for her
wilful suppression of the truth. This was a task, however, to which
she was altogether unequal. In vain she uttered words expressive of her
sorrow, and gave language to sentiments of deep repentance; there was
but one idea, but one image in her mind, viz.: her beautiful boy, and
the certainty that she was the object of his love. Again and again she
attempted to pray, but still with the same success. It was to no purpose
that she resolved to banish him from her thoughts, until at least the
solemn act of her evening-worship should be concluded; for ere she had
uttered half a sentence the image would return, as if absolutely to mock
her devotions. In this manner she continued for some time, striving
to advance with a sincere heart in her address to heaven; again
recommencing with a similar purpose, and as often losing herself in
those visions that wrapped her spirit in their transports. At length she
arose, and for a moment felt a deep awe fall upon her. The idea that
she could not pray, seemed to her as a punishment annexed, by God to
her crime of having tampered with the love of truth, and disregarded
her father's injunctions not to violate it. But this, also, soon passed
away: she lay down, and at once surrendered her heart and thought and
fancy to the power of that passion, which, like the jealous tyrant of
the East, seemed on this occasion resolved to bear no virtue near the
heart in which it sat enthroned. Such, however, was not its character,
as the reader will learn when he proceeds; true love being in our
opinion rather the guardian of the other virtues than their foe.

The next morning, when Jane awoke, the event of yesterday flashed on her
memory with a thrill of pleasure that made her start up in a recumbent
posture in the bed. Her heart bounded, her pulse beat high, and a sudden
sensation of hysterical delight rushed to her throat with a transport
that would have been painful, did she not pass out of a state of such
panting ecstacy and become dissolved in tears. She wept, but how far
did she believe the cause of her emotion to be removed from sorrow? She
wept, yet alas! alas! never did tears of such delight flow from a source
that drew a young heart onward to greater darkness and desolation. Weep