A chill autumnal wind swept through the branches of the shade-trees, which were rapidly losing their foliage in consequence of the early frosts. The hues of evening were falling upon the landscape, and it seemed to him that it would never more be illumined by the morning sun.
As he reached the door of Miss Warren’s dwelling, he met the physician, who advised that she should not see him, or be apprised of his arrival until morning. Willard turned and made his way slowly homeward. His father, not expecting his speedy return, had gone out. The house was desolate—his mother had died when Willard was an infant.
He went to his chamber. Exhausted nature claimed repose. He slept till the light of morning began to struggle for entrance through the window, thickly shaded by the woodbine, which had not yet felt the influence of the frost.
At an early hour he presented himself at the door of the invalid. She was dressed in a robe befitting the sick-chamber. She attempted to rise as he entered, but her strength was not equal to the effort, and she sunk back in her chair. The crimson attendant upon the attempt was succeeded by a deadly paleness, which, however, did not drive the sweet smile from her lips. He stood and gazed upon her, as if upon a statue of surpassing loveliness, or a vision from another world. It was not till her hand was extended to invite him to approach her, and the tears began to fill her eyes, that the spell was broken, and he advanced to press her thin hand to his aching heart. He sat down by her side without speaking.
“I am glad to see you,” said she, almost in a whisper, which to his ear had a sepulchral hollowness. “When did you hear of my return?”
“Have you a cough?” said he, not heeding her question.
Before she could answer, a paroxysm of coughing, which she strove in vain to repress, shook her delicate frame in a manner which caused him to feel from that moment that there was no hope. He rose and paced the room in agony.
“Sit down,” said she, as soon as she had recovered strength to speak. “I shall use no ceremony with you now—sit down here,” and she drew the chair he had occupied closer to her own. “I have heretofore I felt—shall I own it?” and here a smile, such as first won his heart, lighted up her features—“a little afraid of you. I do not feel so now.”
“You do not expect to get well,” said he, as he sat down and took her hand in his.
“I do not,” was her reply, but her countenance underwent not the slightest change. A convulsive burst of grief on his part caused her to weep in sympathy.