To tell that tale my pen were weak,
My tongue its office, too, denies,
Then mark it on my varying cheek,
And read it in my languid eyes.
ANONYMOUS.

After the expiration of a fortnight, Pownal could find no excuses to
satisfy even himself with remaining longer at Judge Bernard's. The
visit had been, indeed, one of great enjoyment, and gladly would he
have availed himself of the pressing invitation of his host to prolong
it, could he have conjured up any reason for doing so. Lightly would
he have esteemed and cheerfully welcomed another wound like that from
which he was recovering, could the pleasure have been thus purchased.
The truth is that within a few days he had been conscious of a feeling
of which he had never before suspected himself, and it was this
feeling that made him so reluctant to depart. And yet, when, in the
silence of his chamber, and away from the blue eyes of Anne Bernard,
he reflected upon his position, he was obliged to confess, with a
sigh, that prudence required he should leave a society as dangerous
as it was sweet. To be in the same house with her, to breathe the same
air, to read the same books, to hear her voice was a luxury it was
hard to forego, but in proportion to the difficulty was the necessity.
Besides he could not avoid fancying that young Bernard, though not
cold, was hardly as cordial as formerly, and that he would regard
with satisfaction a separation from his sister. Nor had he reason to
suppose that she looked upon him with feelings other than those which
she entertained for any other acquaintance standing to her in the
same relation as himself. Beyond the ordinary compliments and little
attentions which the manners of the day permitted, nothing had passed