CHAPTER XXV.
Henry Moore had been a frequent visitor at Mr. Halberg's during Jennie's sojourn there, and so lovely a character as hers could not fail to awaken in his bosom a deeper feeling toward her than that of friendship; yet so calmly had the time glided away that they had spent together, and so far from his mind had been the idea of a separation, that he was scarcely aware of the nature of his emotions until she announced to him her approaching departure from her uncle's.
They were standing together in a little summer-house in the garden, a few weeks after the old man's death, and Carrie was with them, when Jennie looked sadly out upon the old seat that had been left vacant beneath the trees, and said:
"Don't let them remove that, when I am away, Carrie, darling. You know it is all that restored to me my relatives."
"Are you going to leave——, Jennie?" said Henry, with a sudden start which made both the girls gaze eagerly at him. Jennie did not perceive the deep flush that overspread his face; but Carrie observed it, yet thinking it better to appear as if she had noticed nothing unusual, she picked an autumn bud, that had obtruded itself within the trellised window, and quietly handing it to him, said,
"Every thing that we love seems to be going from us at this dreary season, Henry. Even that last bud would have faded from me with the next few chilly hours. Perhaps it is well," she continued, "that we can not have the good and the beautiful always around us, we might forget our unfading inheritance!"
Henry did not answer, for he could not trust himself to speak just then; but Jennie turned to the window that overlooked the village churchyard where her grandfather's grave was made, and repeated, in a low voice, that beautiful hymn of Mrs. Heman's, "Passing Away." As she came to the verse,
"Friends! friends! oh, shall we meet
In a land of purer day,
Where lovely things and sweet
Pass not away?"
her voice faltered, and she did not attempt to finish, but sinking upon a bench near her, she wept unrestrainedly.