that my
visit was expected to be brought to a close. I had been asked, I
remembered, for a week, and I had doubled my furlough. I hinted at
breakfast, that I was afraid I must leave my kind friends to-morrow,
and a general regret was expressed, but no one asked me to stay
longer; so the die was unhappily cast.

Julia was melancholy. I could not but observe it; and I confess that
the observation caused me more pleasure than pain. Could it be sorrow
at my departure? We had been daily, almost hourly, companions for
fourteen days, and the surmise was not unreasonable. She had always
shewn me particular kindness, and she could not but have seen my
marked preference for her. My heart beat wildly as I gazed on her pale
cheek and drooping eyelid; for though she had been always still and
gentle, I had never seen--certainly I had never noticed--such evident
traces of sorrow, as I saw in her face to-day. Oh, if it were for me,
how I would bless each pang which pained that beautiful heart!--how I
would cherish the tears that fell, as if they had been priceless
diamonds from the mine!--how I would joy in her grief and live in her
despair! It might be that out of evil would come good, and from the
deep desolation of my unsold 'Body' might arise the heavenly
blessedness of such love as this! I was intoxicated with my hopes; and
was on the point of making a public idiot of myself, but happily some
slight remnant of common-sense was left me. However, impatient to
learn my fate, I drew Julia aside; and, placing myself at her feet,
while she was enthroned on a luxurious ottoman, I pretended that I
must conclude the series of lectures on art, and the best methods of
colouring, on which I had been employed with her ever since my visit.

'You seem unhappy to-day, Miss Reay,' I said abruptly, with my voice
trembling like a girl's.

She raised her large eyes languidly. 'Unhappy? no, I am never
unhappy,' she said quietly.

Her voice never sounded so silvery sweet, so pure and harmonious. It
fell like music on the air.

'I have, then, been too much blinded by excess of beauty to have been
able to see correctly,' I answered. 'To me you have appeared always
calm, but never sad; but to-day there is a palpable weight of sorrow
on you, which a child might read. It is in your voice, and on your
eyelids, and round your lips; it is on you like the moss on the young
rose--beautifying while veiling the dazzling glory within.'

'Ah! you speak far