lks. I brooded in solitude. I not only
committed to memory the more turgid poems of the late Lord Byron--"Fare
thee well, and if forever," &c.--but I became a despondent poet on my own
account, and composed a string of "Stanzas to One who will understand
them." I think I was a trifle too hopeful on that point; for I came
across the verses several years afterwards, and was quite unable to
understand them myself.

It was a great comfort to be so perfectly miserable and yet not suffer
any. I used to look in the glass and gloat over the amount and variety
of mournful expression I could throw into my features. If I caught
myself smiling at anything, I cut the smile short with a sigh. The
oddest thing about all this is, I never once suspected that I was not
unhappy. No one, not even Pepper Whitcomb, was more deceived than I.

Among the minor pleasures of being blighted were the interest and
perplexity I excited in the simple souls that were thrown in daily
contact with me. Pepper especially. I nearly drove him into a
corresponding state of mind.

I had from time to time given Pepper slight but impressive hints of my
admiration for Some One (this was in the early part of Miss Glentworth's
visit); I had also led him to infer that my admiration was not
altogether in vain. He was therefore unable to explain the cause of
my strange behavior, for I had carefully refrained from mentioning to
Pepper the fact that Some One had turned out to be Another's.

I treated Pepper shabbily. I couldn't resist playing on his tenderer
feelings. He was a boy bubbling over with sympathy for anyone in any
kind of trouble. Our intimacy since Binny Wallace's death had been
uninterrupted; but now I moved in a sphere apart, not to be profaned by
the step of an outsider.

I no longer joined the boys on the playground at recess. I stayed at my
desk reading some lugubrious volume--usually The Mysteries of Udolpho, by
the amiable Mrs. Radcliffe. A translation of The Sorrows of Werter fell
into my hands at this period, and if I could have committed suicide
without killing myself, I should certainly have done so.

On half-holidays, instead of fraternizing with Pepper and the rest of
our clique, I would wander off alone to Grave Point.

Grave Point--the place where Binny Wallace's body came ashore--was a
narrow strip of land running out into the river. A line of Lombardy
poplars, stiff and severe, like a row of grenadiers, mounted guard on
the water-si