The first excitement of our meeting over, I was painfully struck with the great alteration that the absence of a few weeks had made in the face of Margaret.
Her eyes, always beautiful, gleamed with an unnatural brilliancy; and her pure, pale complexion, at times was flushed with a hectic glow, which, contrasting with the dazzling white teeth and jet-black hair, gave a fearful beauty to her charming face.
I took her hand in mine. It burned with fever.
"Dear Margaret, are you ill?"
She raised her eyes to mine, swimming in tears.
"Not ill, Geoffrey; only a little weak."
"No wonder, when you are in such a state of emaciation. You ought not to have let the death of Alice bring you so low as this."
"Your absence and long silence, dear Geoffrey, have had more to do with my poor health than the death of my unfortunate friend."
"How so, dearest?"
"Torturing anxiety, sleepless nights, and days of weeping, would produce this change in stronger frames than mine: But that is all past. I am quite well and happy now, and Margaret will soon be herself again."