Upon my word of honor as a gentleman, I did not know that I loved Annie--I
was not conscious that I was gazing at her with that look of inexpressible
tenderness. Her sudden blush cleared up everything like a flash of
lightning--I rose, set my lips together, and bowed. I could scarcely
speak--I muttered "pray excuse me," and left the apartment.

On the next morning I begged the squire to release me from the completion
of my task--I had a friend who could perform the duties as well as myself,
and who would come to the hall for that purpose, inasmuch as the account
books could not be removed--I must go.

The formal and ceremonious old gentleman did not ask my reasons for this
sudden act--he simply inclined his head--and said that he would always be
glad to serve me. With a momentary pressure of Annie's cold hand, and a
low bow to the frigid Mrs. Barrington, I departed.


VI.


Five years have passed away. They have been eventful ones to me--not for
the unhoped for success which I have had in my profession, so much as for
the long suffering which drove me, violently as it were, to seek relief in
unceasing toil.

The thought of Annie has been ever with me--my pain, though such a term is
slight, was caused by my leaving her. I never knew how much I loved her
until all those weary miles were thrown between us. My days have been most
unhappy, my nights drearier still; for a long time now, I have not thought
or said "how good a thing it is to live!"