"Most certainly, madam; I shall go immediately," said Stafford, standing up. "I was about to propose it myself when you spoke."
"You will return as soon as possible?" called Mrs. Brantwell, after him, as he left the room.
"I shall not lose a moment," said the young man, as he ran down stairs, sprang on his horse and dashed furiously toward the town.
As it was impossible with the utmost expedition, for him to return before the next day, Mrs. Brantwell prepared herself for a night of lingering torture—the torture of suspense. To the anxious, affectionate heart of the good old lady, that long, sleepless night seemed endless; and she hailed the sunlight of the next morning with joy, as the precursor of news from Sibyl.
As the morning passed, this anxiety and suspense grew almost unendurable. Unable to sit down for one moment, Mrs. Brantwell paced up and down, wringing her hands, and twisting her fingers, and looking every other moment down the road, whence Stafford must come.
But, with all her anxious watching, the hours passed on; and, it was almost noon before the welcome sound of a rapid gallop met her ear, and brought her eager, palpitating, and trembling, to the door. Yes, it was Stafford, but the hope that had sprung up in her breast, died away at sight of his face. His horse was reeking with foam, his clothes were disordered and travel-stained, his hair disheveled, his face pale and haggard, as if from sleeplessness and sorrow, and his eyes gloomy and excited.
"Oh, Mr. Stafford, what news of Sibyl?" gasped Mrs. Brantwell, faintly.
"Oh, it is just as I feared it would be! Sibyl is fully committed for trial," said Stafford, leaping off his horse, and entering the parlor excitedly.
Mrs. Brantwell, faint and sick, dropped into a chair, and bowed her face in her hands, unable to speak; and her husband took up the inquiry.
"Have you seen Sibyl?"