CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH.
SET FREE.
Julia looked very much the same as she had done that evening when I came reluctantly to tell her that my heart was not in her keeping, but belonged to another. She wore the same kind of fresh, light muslin dress, with ribbons and lace about it, and she sat near the window, with a piece of needle-work in her hands; yet she was not sewing, and her hands lay listlessly on her lap. But, for this attitude of dejection, I could have imagined that it was the same day and the same hour, and that she was still ignorant of the change in my feelings toward her. If it had not been for our perverse fate, we should now be returning from our wedding-trip, and receiving the congratulations of our friends. A mingled feeling of sorrow, pity, and shame, prevented me from advancing into the room. She looked up to see who was standing in the doorway, and my appearance there evidently alarmed and distressed her.
"Martin!" she cried.
"May I come in and speak to you, Julia?" I asked.
"Is my aunt worse?" she inquired, hurriedly. "Are you come to fetch me to her?"
"No, no, Julia," I said; "my mother is as well as usual, I hope. But surely you will let me speak to you after all this time?"
"It is not a long time," she answered.
"Has it not been long to you?" I asked. "It seems years to me. All life has changed for me. I had no idea then of my mother's illness."
"Nor I," she said, sighing deeply.