e bird, and
disappeared in the interior of the room.

The sun went down; the twilight shadows fell over the dreary square;
the gas lamps were lighted far and near; people who had been out for a
breath of fresh air in the fields, came straggling past me by ones and
twos, on their way home--and still I lingered near the house, hoping she
might come to the window again; but she did not re-appear. At last,
a servant brought candles into the room, and drew down the Venetian
blinds. Knowing it would be useless to stay longer, I left the square.

I walked homeward joyfully. That second sight of her completed what the
first meeting had begun. The impressions left by it made me insensible
for the time to all boding reflections, careless of exercising the
smallest self-restraint. I gave myself up to the charm that was at
work on me. Prudence, duty, memories and prejudices of home, were all
absorbed and forgotten in love--love that I encouraged, that I dwelt
over in the first reckless luxury of a new sensation.

I entered our house, thinking of nothing but how to see her, how to
speak to her, on the morrow; murmuring her name to myself; even while my
hand was on the lock of my study door. The instant I was in the room, I
involuntarily shuddered and stopped speechless. Clara was there! I was
not merely startled; a cold, faint sensation came over me. My first look
at my sister made me feel as if I had been detected in a crime.

She was standing at my writing-table, and had just finished stringing
together the loose pages of my manuscript, which had hitherto laid
disconnectedly in a drawer. There was a grand ball somewhere, to which
she was going that night. The dress she wore was of pale blue crape (my
father's favourite colour, on her). One white flower was placed in her
light brown hair. She stood within the soft steady light of my lamp,
looking up towards the door from the leaves she had just tied together.
Her slight figure appeared slighter than usual, in the delicate material
that now clothed it. Her complexion was at its palest: her face looked
almost statue-like in its purity and repose. What a contrast to the
other living picture which I had seen at sunset!

The remembrance of the engagement that I had broken came back on me
avengingly, as she smiled, and held my manuscript up before me to look
at. With that remembrance there returned, too--darker than ever--the
ominous doubts which had depressed me but a few hours sinc