Will the birds sing—flowers bloom, when thou art gone?
Desolate! desolate!”
Bulwer’s King Arthur.
“Oh, I was sure that you would come,—quite sure! And Ida—my own precious Ida!” The poor young girl clung to her sister as if they had been parted for years.
“My husband!” exclaimed Annabella, trembling lest terrible news should await her.
“He is much the same, but—”
“Where is he—I will fly to him; I—”
“My dear madam,” said the low voice of a stranger, as a tall, bald gentleman in black came forth from the interior of the cottage, with his finger raised to his lip, “may I request that no sound be uttered—my patient is in a state of high fever.”
“I will quietly glide up to his room—”
“If, as I suppose, I have the honour of addressing the Countess of Dashleigh, I trust that she will pardon my strictly forbidding any one but Mr. Aumerle and the nurse from entering the chamber of the earl.”