"Good bye, then," I said, sadly. "But shall you still live here?"
"Oh, no!" she exclaimed, earnestly; "you can't think that I"—
Here she stopped, and glanced towards the kitchen-door.
"No," said I, "I won't think it. But where will you stay?"
"With Mrs. James. You know her. I have already spoken with her."
The tramp of the driver was now heard, approaching.
"Any passenger here bound for Boston?"
"Yes, Sir," I answered, and with one more whispered good-bye, one wring of the hand, I passed out, gave my bundle to the driver, and entered the coach.
What a ride home that was! What a half-day of doubting, hoping, despairing! I had not before realized how sure I had been of her accepting me; and now that I felt how much I loved her, and thought of the many causes which might separate us, I could not but say over in my heart the sorrowful words of poor Sam,—"I shall never be anybody, if she won't have me." Still, though not accepted, I could not feel refused; for what was it I read in her face? why so agitated? That she struggled with some strong feeling was evident. The remembrance, perhaps, of a former love.
In this tumult, this miserable condition, I reached home, where, spreading my old calmness over my new agitation, I received, as best I might, the joyful greeting of Fanny, the heartfelt welcome of Aunt Huldah. I tried hard to be my own old self, and could not but hope that even my sharp-eyed sister was blinded. But no sooner had I entered my room for the night, no sooner had I thrown myself into my deep-cushioned arm-chair, than this lively sprite entered, on her way to bed. She seated herself on the trunk close by me, laid her hand upon my arm, and said,—