I looked at her inquiringly.
“I know you will laugh at me, Marie, and think me very foolish,” she said, “but I have a presentiment that I shall never live to return.”
“I have had a dozen such in my life-time,” I answered, “yet they all proved untrue; and so may yours, Fanny dear.”
“I fear not,” she replied in a sad tone.
Knowing that all reasoning would be ineffectual in my friend’s present mood, I simply tried to relieve her sadness by talking upon other subjects on the way.
The likeness was a perfect one. It might have presented a gloomy countenance, but fortunately, I whispered to her, as she seated herself —
“Now, Fanny, do let your mother have a pleasant smile, or she will not like the picture.”
I wish you could see the likeness; the position was so natural and the work so beautifully executed! But you cannot—Fanny gave it into my hands to be faithfully delivered to her mother at some future time; and now—but my story must develop its present hiding-place.
Shall I tell you of our long rail-road journey, and of the dark tunnels through which we passed, reminding one of the “valley of death,” where, as I carelessly alluded to this resemblance, Fanny’s hand grasped, mine with a touch so cold as to send a sympathetic chill of horror through my veins? Or shall I tell you of the shorter stage-ride, and the close companionship of its occupants? No, I will not weary you with either of these in detail; for there was nothing to vary the usual monotony of such journeys we being allowed the customary number of crying babies, and troublesome older children, and the same amount of agreeable and disagreeable strangers.
We found Caroline delighted to see us, (as who would not be,) and I was pleased to notice that much of Fanny’s sadness had disappeared during the first evening. The next morning, however, it was again observable in a listless demeanor, or deep sigh in the midst of a witty remark, or gay laugh.