"My Dear Miss Vernon,
"I lose no time in informing you that I had a letter this morning from Winter, dated the 20th, nearly three weeks ago; he writes in good health and spirits, and talks of returning immediately; he is anxious to know where you are; uncertainty on this point, from some passage in your last letter, having kept him silent. I should not be surprised at his arrival any day.
"Hoping this letter may find you well, and in haste to catch the post.
"Your's faithfully,
"Willm. Langley."
The first movement of her mind was disappointment, that Winter had not written to herself.
"I thought I told him to direct as usual, to Mr. Langley; there must have been some mistake; I forget what I wrote, but he may be back very soon, perhaps next week—and then—"
What a bright indistinct feeling of hope and freedom expanded her heart—yet she felt strangely nervous and trembling, as if the shadow of some coming crisis had fallen upon her, and she hastily swallowed a glass of cold water to refresh her parched mouth, before performing the inevitable journey to church.
Mr. Wilson's pew was irreproachable in point of size and position, it was not however faultless, for a large pillar, supporting the gallery, reduced one corner to an invisible nook, where the most splendid bonnet, and richest brocade might be for ever hidden from the eyes of an admiring congregation. Here Kate had established her position, and was permitted to retain it unmolested, and in most profound and grateful thanksgiving she knelt that morning.
The church was crowded to excess—strangers stood in the aisle—under the pulpit—in the door-ways—pew-openers waxed curt and imperious in the exercise of unusual powers. Several well-dressed individuals had been accommodated with seats in Mr. Wilson's pew, when Kate's eye was involuntarily attracted by the distinguished air of a gentleman, who had been shown into a seat, two or three rows in front of her, during the second lesson; his back was towards her, of course, and she felt vexed with herself for the pertinacity with which her eyes and thoughts returned to him; his tall figure seemed familiar to her, as she contrasted its easy grace with the forms around; so did the wavy dark brown hair, the proud turn of the head, and as she gazed, her heart throbbed, and the colour mounted to her cheeks. Surely it was a waking dream, yet she could not be mistaken. No! it must be him—that bow, as he returned a book, she had dropped, to the lady next him, none but Egerton could have made it. Oh, that he would turn his face; but he still stood or sat in the same position, and Kate, every pulse beating, now pale, now flushing, striving vainly to think of the service—her thoughts, now darting away into the past, now crying from the depths of her soul to God for strength for the future, tried to still the wild glowing anticipations which swept in sudden rapture over her spirit, as the aurora borealis streams across the northern gloom. It was too bold, too far-fetched a thought that he still remembered her, why should she expect it.