"I did not think I was of so much consequence," I replied. "It is well to be sick now and then, so as to be able to appreciate the kindness of friends."
"You must suffer us to go now, Richard," said Mrs. Linwood moving towards the staircase; "you will find merry company in the parlor ready to entertain you. As Gabriella is no longer a prisoner, you will have future opportunities of seeing her."
"I must embrace them soon," said he, sadly. "I expect to leave this place before long,—my friends, and my country."
"You, Richard?" I exclaimed. Then I remembered the remarks I had heard on commencement day, of his being sent to Europe to complete his education. I regretted to lose the champion of my childhood, the friend of my youth, and my countenance expressed my emotion.
"I have a great deal to say to you, Gabriella," said he, in a low tone. "May I see you to-morrow?"
"Certainly,—that is, I think, I hope so." A glance that flashed on me from the doorway arrested my stammering tongue. Ernest was standing there, observing the interview, and the dark passion of which his mother had warned me clouded his brow. Snatching my hand from Richard, I bade him a hasty good-night, and ascended the stairs, with a prophetic heart.
Yet, while I felt the shadow on his brow stealing darkly over me, I repeated to myself,—
"The keenest pangs the wretched find,
Are rapture to the dreary void,
The leafless desert of the mind,
The waste of feelings unemployed."