by the self-tormenting fancies and fears which beset miserable
women, as when I left the house, and turned my steps toward
Kensington Gardens--for the first time since my husband's death.

Attended by my only companion, the little dog who had been his
favorite as well as mine, I went to the quiet corner of the
Gardens which is nearest to Kensington.

On that soft grass, under the shade of those grand trees, we had
loitered together in the days of our betrothal. It was his
favorite walk; and he had taken me to see it in the early days of
our acquaintance. There, he had first asked me to be his wife.
There, we had felt the rapture of our first kiss. It was surely
natural that I should wish to see once more a place sacred to
such memories as these? I am only twenty-three years old; I have
no child to comfort me, no companion of my own age, nothing to
love but the dumb creature who is so faithfully fond of me.

I went to the tree under which we stood, when my dear one's eyes
told his love before he could utter it in words. The sun of that
vanished day shone on me again; it was the same noontide hour;
the same solitude was around me. I had feared the first effect of
the dreadful contrast between past and present. No! I was quiet
and resigned. My thoughts, rising higher than earth, dwelt on the
better life beyond the grave. Some tears came into my eyes. But I
was not unhappy. My memory of all that happened may be trusted,
even in trifles which relate only to myself--I was not unhappy.

The first object that I saw, when my eyes were clear again, was
the dog. He crouched a few paces away from me, trembling