words, as I did when he had spoken them. But by-and-by there was a
different tone: I could not describe it; there was nothing to complain
of; and yet I felt--so surely!--that something was wrong. I never
thought of blaming him; I dreaded lest I had in some way wounded his
affection or his pride. I asked no explanation; I thought to do so
might annoy or vex him, for his was a peculiar nature. I only wrote to
him the more fondly,--strove more and more to show him how my whole
heart was his. But the change grew plainer as months passed on; and
some weeks before the time appointed for his return, the letters ceased
altogether.

This conduct grieved me, certainly, yet I was more perplexed than
unhappy. It never occurred to me to doubt his love; I thought there
must be some mistake, some offence unwittingly given, and I looked to
his coming to clear away all doubt and trouble. But I longed so for
that coming!--it seemed as if the weeks would never end. I knew he
loved me; but I needed to hear him say it once more,--to have every
shadow dispelled, and nothing between us but the warmest affection and
fullest confidence.

In such a mood I met him. The house was full of guests, and I could not
bear to see him for the first time before so many eyes. I had watched,
as may well be believed, for his arrival, and a little before dark had
seen him enter his mother's house. He would surely come over soon; I
ran down the long walk, and paced up and down beneath the trees,
awaiting him. As soon as he came in sight I hastened toward him; he met
me kindly, but the change that had been in his letters was plainer yet
in his manner. It struck a chill to my heart.

"I suppose you have a house full of company, as usual," he remarked