agony I was enduring was so intolerable, and its real
relief so impossible, like a child I caught at some fancied palliation,
and craved only that. What would one look, one word be--out of a
lifetime of silence and separation.

No matter: it was what I raged and died for, just one look, just one
word more. He had said he would never look into my eyes again: that
haunted me and made me superstitious. I would _make_ him look at me. I
would seize his hand and kneel before him, and tell him I should die if
he did not speak to me once more. Once more! Just once, out of years,
out of forever. I had thrown duty, conscience, thought to the winds. I
had but one fear--that we should be finally separated without that word
spoken, that look exchanged. I said to myself again and again, I shall
die, if I cannot speak to him again. Beyond that I did not look. What
better I should be after that speaking I did not care. I only longed and
looked for that as a relief from the insufferable agony of my fate. One
cannot take in infinite wretchedness: it is our nature to make dates and
periods to our sorrows in our imagination.

And so that horrid afternoon and evening passed, amid the racket and
babel of visitors and visiting. I followed almost blindly, and did as
the others did. The next morning dawned bright and cold. What a day for
summer! The sun was brilliant, but the wind came from over icebergs; it
seemed like "winter painted green."

We were to start at nine o'clock. I was ready early, waiting on the
piazza for the aid to fate that was to keep me from the punishment of
going. No human being had spoken his name that morning. How should I
know whether he were still so ill or no.

The hour for starting had arrived. Richard, who never kept long out of
sight of me, was busy loading the wagon that was to accompany us, with
baskets of things to eat, and with wines and fruits. Kilian was
engrossed in arranging the seats and cushions in the two carriages which
had just driven to the door.

Mary Leighton was fluttering about the flower-bed at the left of the
piazza, making herself lovely with geranium and roses. Sophie, in a
beautiful costume, was pacifying Charley, who had had a difference with
his uncle Kilian. Charlotte and Henrietta were busy in their small way
over a little basket of preserves; and two or three of the neighboring
gentlemen, who were to drive with us, were approaching the house by a
side-entrance.

In a moment or t