The door opened, and a flood of light gushed into the apartment. It was a servant bearing a lamp.
“What is the hour?” I demanded.
“Nine o’clock, mi amo,” (my master), was the reply.
The servant set down the lamp and went out. Another immediately entered, carrying a salver with a small gold cup.
“What have you there?”
“Chocolate, master; Dona Joaquina has sent it.”
I drank off the beverage, and hastened to dress myself. I was reflecting whether I should pass on to camp without seeing any one of the family. Somehow, my heart felt less heavy. I believe the morning always brings relief to pain, either mental or bodily. It seems to be a law of nature—at least, so my experience tells me. The morning air, buoyant and balmy, dulls the edge of anguish. New hopes arise and new projects appear with the sun. The invalid, couch-tossing through the long watches of the night, will acknowledge this truth.
I did not approach the mirror. I dared not.
“I will not looked upon the loved, the hated face—no, on to the camp!—let Lethe—. Has my friend arisen?”
“Yes, master; he has been up for hours.”