any entreaty of hers could alter their position—that any prayer could have prolonged Adalbert's stay for an hour; but every effort was directed to conceal her own grief: she felt so acutely the least sign of his suffering, that she only wished to spare him the sight of hers. At last he mounted his horse—once he looked back—Theresa was leaning against the old oak-tree for support, watching his progress—she caught his look, and as she interpreted it into an intention of returning, she held out her hands, and he could see the light come again to her eye and the colour to her cheek, while she sprang forward breathless with expectation; he, however, averted his head, and spurred his steed to its utmost swiftness: he did not see her sink on the earth—the strength which had sustained her had gone with her husband.
Youth's first acquaintance with sorrow is a terrible thing—before time has taught, what it will surely teach, that grief is our natural portion, at once transitory and eternal. But the first lesson is the severest—we have not then looked among our fellows, and seen that suffering is general; and we feel as if marked out by fate for misery that has no parallel. Theresa felt more acutely every hour, how wide a gulf had opened between her present and past existence: her girlhood had passed for ever; she took no pleasure in any of her former pursuits; she had put away childish things; and nothing had arisen to supply their place, save one
