“He is going away next week,” she kept saying again and again to herself, while a chill pain gnawed at her heart. “How can I bear to have him go, and feel that I may never see him again? Oh, England, my home! my home! would that I also could go back to you!”
So intense was her longing for her home, so keenly did she regret this parting, which she felt was inevitable, that the tears sprang into her eyes, and a deep sigh came welling up from her burdened heart.
“Miss Star, why that doleful sigh?” exclaimed Archibald Sherbrooke, in surprise.
Star started, and looking up, found her companion’s eyes fixed upon her with grave questioning.
She colored vividly, fearing he had read something of her thoughts.
“Did I sigh?” she asked, evasively.
“Yes; and I did not like the sound of it, either. Are you tired of driving? Shall we go back and try something else?” he asked, only anxious to give her pleasure.
“Oh, no; this is delightful,” she answered, quietly. “I fear I have been guilty of rudeness if I have given you the impression that I am not enjoying every moment of this lovely day. Do you know, Mr. Sherbrooke,” she asked, with a smile that had a tinge of sadness in it, “that I am indebted to you for the only real holiday that I have had since I came to America?”
He regarded her with surprise.
“Is it possible?” he asked. “I fear, then, that you have not had a very happy life during the last year, or else you are working too hard over your books.”