"No danger of that! he will not be there." Her patience was nearly spent. Josephine accepted the gift with a very bad grace; she was awkward and embarrassed, and what appears more improbable, a little ashamed. Mr. Read was attired with scrupulous neatness and elegance, and looked ten years younger than he really was. Ida "presumed" to tell him so, and was recompensed by a bland smile. She had done her duty, perhaps more, and she did not repent of her self-denial; but something of the desolate feeling of "lang-syne" fell upon her, as she was left, sole tenant of the parlor and the house. Weak and weary, she sighed for human society and affection. It was a darkened hour; clouded by self-doubtings, mournful memories and forebodings. The piano was open; she had not touched it since her arrival at home; but she went to it now; only plaintive tunes came to her fingers; she played fitfully, as her mood disposed her; the music was the voice of her thoughts; and she sang to a rambling, irregular measure—
"I am alone—the last light tread
And laugh have died upon my ear;
And I may weep unchecked—nor dread
The scorn, that forces back the tear.
I turn to Thee! oh! when the strings,
The trustful heart has fondly thrown,
Wound closely round its best-loved things—
Are, by one stroke, asunder torn,
And bleeding, crushed, uncared for, lie—
When Hope's gay smile no joy can throw,
And the soul breathes but one wish—to die!
To whom else can the suffering go?
Thou—Thou dost look within, and read
How I have sought for love, and found
Reproach instead—how in its need
My spirit bowed it to the ground,—
E'en to the dust—and deemed it nought
Bore patiently, when pained and wronged
And smiled on sorrow, if it brought
The priceless boon for which it longed.
In vain! in vain! and now I come—
As to her nest the dove doth flee;
Give Thou my wandering heart a home—
And bind its shattered chords to Thee!"
"My poor child! are you then so sad?"
She knew the hand upon her drooping head before he spoke; and with a prayer for support, that calmed her fluttering heart, arose to greet him.
"Am I forgiven for my intrusion?" said he, leading her to a chair. "The front door was ajar, and hearing your music, I entered without ringing."
"Freely pardoned! Have you been in town long?"
"Since five o'clock this afternoon. I am on my way to the south with Annie. She is ordered to winter in Florida. Go with us—will you not? Charley supped with us; and Annie proposed this plan on hearing of your feeble health. She will wait until you are ready if you comply."
"I am very grateful for her kindness; but I cannot avail myself of it."
"Are there any 'propriety scruples?'" inquired he, smiling. "You will be her companion; and the most fastidious cannot object to the escort of a brother, and—an engaged man."