ntinued, "that I am anxious to get rid of you, but you
know you must marry some day."

I solemnly shook my head. "All that," I said, "is at an end. We need
speak no more of it."

My grandmother arose, and gently placed her hand upon my shoulder.
"Come! come! Do not be so dreadfully cast down. You have yet one strong
ground of hope."

"What is that?" I inquired.

My grandmother looked into my face and smiled. "The girl isn't dead
yet," she answered.

I now found myself in a very unsettled and unpleasant state of mind. My
business affairs, which had been a good deal neglected of late, I put
into the charge of Walkirk, who attended to them with much interest and
ability. My individual concerns--that is to say, the guidance and
direction of myself--I took into my own hands, and a sorry business I
made of it.

I spent a great deal of my time wondering whether or not Sylvia had
returned to the House of Martha. I longed for her coming. The very
thought of her living within a mile of me was a wild and uneasy
pleasure. Then I would ask myself why I wished her to come. Her presence
in the neighborhood would be of no good to me unless I saw her, and of
course I could not see her. And if this could be so, what would be worse
for me, or for her, than our seeing each other? From these abstract
questions I came to a more practical one: What should I do? To go away
seemed to be a sensible thing, but I was tired of going away. I liked my
home, and, besides, Sylvia would be in the neighborhood. It also seemed
wise to stay, and endeavor to forget her. But how could I forget her, if
she were in the neighborhood? If she were to go away, I might be willing
to go away also; but the chances were that I should not know where she
had gone, and how could I endure to go to any place where I was certain
she was not?

During this mental tangle I confided in no one. There was no one who
could sympathize with my varying view of the subject, and I knew there
was no one with whose view of the subject I could agree. Sometimes it
was almost impossible for me to sympathize with myself.

It suited my mood to take long walks in the surrounding country. One
morning, returning from one of these, when about half a mile out of the
village, I saw in the road, not very far from me, a carriage, which
seemed to be in distress. It was a four-wheeled, curtained vehicle, of
the kind to be had for hire at the railroad stations; and beside the
raw-boned horse