Ernest remained with us until fall. Those were happy days. We read, we talked, we walked, we lived with each other. More like sister and sister than brother and sister, we wandered arm-in-arm to the brow of the hill as the rich summer evening came on,—or crossed the river in early morning, and climbed the winding road that led to the brow of the Palisades,—or sat, at night, under the trees by the river's bank, watching the stars as they looked down into the calm water. Sometimes at night, we sat in the library, and I read while the old man's hand rested gently on my head and Ernest sat by my side. And often upon the porch, as the summer night wore on, Ernest and myself sang together some old familiar hymn, while "Father" listened in quiet delight. Thus three months passed away, and Ernest left for college.
"Next year, Frank, I graduate," he cried, his thoughtful face flushed with hope, and his gray eyes full of joyous light—"and then for the battle with the world!"
He left, and the cottage seemed blank and desolate. The good clergyman felt his absence most keenly.
"Well, well," he would mutter, "a year is soon round and then Ernest will be with us again!"
As for myself, I tried my books, my harp, took long walks alone, busied myself in household cares, but I could not reconcile myself to the absence of Ernest.
Winter came, and one night a letter arrived from Ernest to his father, and in that letter one for—Frank! How eagerly I took it from "father's" hand and hurried to my room,—that room which I remember yet so vividly, with its window opening on the garden, and the picture of the Virgin Mary on the snow-white wall. Unmindful of the cold, I sat down alone and perused the letter, O, how eagerly! It was a letter from a brother to a sister, and yet beneath the calm current of a brother's love, there flowed a deeper and a warmer love. How joyously he spoke of his future, and how strangely he seemed to mingle my name with every image of that future! I read his letter over and over, and slept with it upon my bosom; and I dreamed, O! such air-castle dreams, in which a whole lifetime seemed to pass away, while Ernest and Frank, always young, always happy, went wandering, hand-in-hand, under skies without a cloud. But I awoke in fright and terror. It seemed to me that a cold hand—like the hand of a corpse—was laid upon my bosom, and somehow I thought that my mother was dead and that it was her hand. I started up in fright and tears, and lay shuddering until the rising sun shone gayly through the frosted window-pane.
Another year had nearly passed away.
It was June again, and it was toward evening that I stood upon the cottage porch watching—not the cloudless sky and glorious river bathed in the setting sun—but watching earnestly for the sound of a footstep. Ernest was expected home. He had graduated with all the honors—he was coming home! How I watched and waited for that welcome step! At last the wicket-gate was opened, and Ernest's step resounded on the garden-walk. Concealing myself among the vines which covered one of the pillars of the porch, I watched him as he approached, determining to burst upon him in a glad surprise as soon as he reached the steps. His head was downcast, he walked with slow and thoughtful steps; his long black hair fell wild and tangled on his shoulders. The joyous hue of youth on his cheek had been replaced by the pallor of long and painful thought. The hopeful boy of the last year had been changed into the moody and ambitious man! As he came on, although my heart swelled to bursting at sight of him, I felt awed and troubled, and forgot my original intention of bursting upon him in a merry surprise. He reached the porch—he ascended the step—and I glided silently from behind the pillar and confronted him. O, how his face lighted up as he saw me! His eyes, no longer glassy and abstracted, were radiant with a delight too deep for words!
"Frank!" he said, and silently pressed my hand.
"Ernest," was all I could reply, and we stood in silence—both trembling, agitated—and gazing into each other's eyes.