"We are in sight of your new home now," says my companion, pointing
"Where the lamps quiver So far in the river."
And I cannot reply, to save my life. A mist of tears dim the glare of those lights, at first sight. We near the wharf; the bell rings; the busy hum of the city reaches our ears less and less faintly; the dim figures that crowd the wharf grow more distinct.
"We had better go below," I say, with a shiver, "I have to find my books and shawls, and it is growing so cold."
Perhaps if I had known more about that "untold, untried to-morrow," which I so vaguely dreaded, I should have shrunk more even than I did, from ending this short hour before its dawning. But,
"It is well we cannot see
What the end will be."
[CHAPTER XVII.]
"And all that fills the heart of friends
When first they feel, with secret pain,
Their lives henceforth have separate ends,
And never can be one again."
LONGFELLOW.
Thomas being at once the most determined and the most imposing of attendants, he speedily succeeded in clearing a way for us through the crowd of hackmen, carmen, and newsboys, and in selecting the most promising of the array of vehicles offered for our accommodation; installing us and our luggage therein and thereon; and bestowing his own long limbs à côté du cocher, we were soon rattling over pavements, rough and jarring to a miserable degree. Mr. Rutledge perceived how frightened and nervous I was, and first tried to laugh away, then to coax away, my foolish dread of meeting my aunt. It was in vain; for once, his kindness and eloquence were lost upon me. I could think of nothing but the approaching interview; and looking out of the window, counted eagerly the blocks we passed.