"Very possibly," replied Mr. Ware.
The deep shadows of the winter's evening were now rapidly closing round them, and the light streaks on the horizon growing fainter and fainter—yet, still they lingered as if their short acquaintance rendered them reluctant to part so soon.
"The night warns me that I must go," said the stranger, at length, as he mounted his horse, casting as he did so, a glance at the surrounding country; "though I would willingly stay—but the shadows always come between me and happiness."
"Not so," said Mr. Ware, earnestly.
"Is it not so," said the stranger, slightly bending towards him, and as he did so, raising his hat, together with the mass of red hair which disguised his countenance, now beaming upon him in its characteristic and noble beauty—to which the deep black of his hair added all that was wanting. Before, however, Mr. Ware had time to utter a word, a light stroke of the whip sent the horse forward, and as he dashed onwards, he cried; "Say nothing till we meet again." In a few seconds he had turned the corner, and as Mr. Ware stood entirely bewildered with the revelation which had burst so suddenly upon him—he heard nothing but the echo of his horse's hoofs—as its utmost speed carried him further away—till the last sound died upon the night air.
CHAPTER III.
Oh, there are griefs for nature too intense,
Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul;
Nor hath the fragile, and o'er labour'd sense,
Strength e'en to feel at once their dread controul.
But when 'tis past, that still and speechless hour
Of the sealed bosom, and the tearless eye,
Then the roused mind awakes with tenfold power,
To grasp the feelings of its agony.
Hemans.