e had returned to the country, and was to be married shortly to a
wealthy, beautiful widow he had found abroad. At first we heard that he
was married, and then that he was making great preparations, but would
not marry until autumn. Even the bride's dress was described, and the
furniture of the house of which she was to be mistress. I had expected
some such thing, but it added one more drop of bitterness to the
yearning I had for him. It was so hard to think him like any other man!

However, now, as before, I covered up the wound with a smiling face, and
went about my business. I had been making extensive improvements on my
farm, and kept out all day often, over-seeing the laborers. One night, a
soft, starlight evening in late May, I came home very tired, and, being
quite alone, sat down on the portico to watch the stars and think. I had
not been long there, when a man's step came up the avenue, and some
person, I could not tell who in the darkness, opened the gate, and came
slowly up towards me. I rose, and bade him good-evening.

"Is it you, Rachel?" he said, quite faintly. It was his voice. Thank
Heaven for the darkness! The hand I gave him might tremble, but my face
should betray nothing. I invited him into the parlor, and rang for
lights.

"He's come to see about selling the old house," I thought; there was a
report that he would sell it by auction. When the lights came, he looked
eagerly at me.

"Am I much changed?" I said, with a half-bitter smile.

"Not so much as I," he answered, sighing and looking down;--he seemed to
be in deep thought for a moment.

He was much changed. His hair was turning gray; his face was thin, with
a subdued expression I had never expected to see him wear. He must have
suffered greatly; and, as I looked, my heart began to melt. That would
not do; and besides, what was the need of pity, when he had consoled
himself? I asked some ordinary question about his journey, and led him
into a conversation on foreign travel.

The evening passed away as it might with two strangers, and he rose to
go, with a grave face and manner as cold as mine,--for I had been very
cold. I followed him to the door, and asked how long he stayed at
Huntsville.

Only a part of the next day, he said; his child could not be left any
longer; but he wished very much to see me, and so had contrived to get a
few days.

"Indeed!" I said. "You honor me. Your Huntsville friends scarcely
expected to be remembered so