Seated in the piazza of the comfortable inn is a traveler, who but a half hour since alighted from the stage, and made known his intention of spending some weeks in the village; consequently, the best room in the house is at his service, as also the best bows of Boniface and his attendants.
One glance will suffice us to recognize in the stranger our young artist, yet at the second we shall wonder what can have wrought so great a change in the outward man; why that happy, joyous air is exchanged for one so grave and even gloomy; why that fresh and blooming countenance is now so wan and haggard!
O, this love—this love!
Either absorbed in the beauty of the scene around him, or in his own moody thoughts, most probably the latter, the moments passed unheeded away, nor until aroused by his host with the announcement of supper, did he once move from his half-recumbent position. After slightly partaking of this repast, to the evident discomfiture of the good landlady, who attributed the dainty appetite of her guest, to nothing less than a dislike for her excellent fare, Auburn strolled forth from the inn, and proceeded slowly along the now almost deserted street.
The moon had by this time risen, casting her mild radiance over the peaceful village, and silvering the bosom of the placid lake below, while many a gambol did the shadows play upon the dewy green-sward, and upon the house-tops, as the leaves of the large elms flittered and danced in the soft evening breeze.
Suddenly a strain of delicious music broke the stillness. It aroused Auburn from his revery; he paused, and found himself near a small cottage, standing at some little distance from the street, the peculiar beauty of which at once attracted him. An avenue of horse-chestnuts and other ornamental trees led up to the entrance, while for some distance the road and enclosures were lined with the tall, silvery poplar. Clusters of beautiful flowers nodded their fragrant heads in the moonlight, while the soothing murmur of a brook winding through a grove of willows, shadowing one end of the cottage, fell pleasantly upon the ear.
Still the music floated around him—now pensive, now gay. Well known airs brought back the memory of other scenes; one voice, too, was strangely familiar—he could almost fancy he was listening, as of old, to the sweet notes of his cousin, Kate Kennedy.
The music ceased, yet still Auburn lingered. Two ladies, accompanied by a gentleman, now appear in the piazza which encircles the cottage. Arm in arm they saunter down the walk, talking and laughing gayly. When near the gate, they pause for a moment; an affectionate good-night is interchanged—one lady returns slowly to the house, while the other two persons continuing their walk are in a moment close to Auburn.
“Harry!”
“Kate!” were simultaneous exclamations, and the next instant the cousins affectionately embraced.