I grew deadly pale at these words, and, turning round, looked at the speaker full in the face. Poor fellow, thought I, he is jealous, and I am really grieved for him; and turned again to Clara.
“Here it is—oh! how handsome, papa,” said one of the younger children, running eagerly to the window, as a very pretty open carriage with four horses drew up before the house.
“The bishop has taste,” I murmured to myself, scarcely deigning to give a second look at the equipage.
Clara now left the room, but speedily returned—her dress changed, and shawled as if for a walk. What could all this mean?—and the whispering, too, what is all that?—and why are they all so sad?—Clara has been weeping.
“God bless you, my child—good by,” said my aunt, as she folded her in her arms for the third time.
“Good by, good by,” I heard on every side. At length, approaching me, Clara took my hand and said—
“My poor Harry, so we are going to part. I am going to Italy.”
“To Italy, Clara? Oh! no—say no. Italy! I shall never see you again.”
“Won’t you wear this ring for me, Harry? It is an old favourite of yours—and when we meet again”—
“Oh! dearest Clara,” I said, “do not speak thus.”