over-excited nerves! It seems to mock our inward misery to see all but the pulses of our own beating heart, go on so calmly and uniformly. There is an exaggeration in sorrow, which would fain demand universal sympathy: it does not find it, and the sorrow sinks the deeper.
"I am very late," exclaimed Ethel, starting up, and drawing her hood over her face: "dear, dear sir, I will thank you for your kindness to-morrow."
"God bless you, my poor child; but will you take a servant with you—you are not well enough to go home by yourself?"
"I am better alone: it is not five minutes' walk," said Ethel, eagerly.
Sir Jasper let her depart without further remonstrance; he sympathised with the feverish mood that craved the indulgence of solitude; he knew its worth. Ethel hurried along the well known path, haunted by so many remembrances. She started from them: she felt as if she must drop, did she pause for a single moment. Never had she made such
