ubly pleasant when it brought him down to see us?
Indeed, I had insensibly begun to expect him. There was an indescribable
something in his manner, especially when we happened to be alone, that I
thought it impossible to misunderstand. Once, when strolling round the
garden, I directed his attention to a group of charming autumn flowers.
But, instead of noticing them, he looked at me, and replied,--

"Ah, Miss Lizzie, I long since discovered that this garden contains a
sweeter flower than any of these!"

I turned away from him, abashed and silent, for I was confused and
frightened by the idea that he was alluding to me, and it was a long
time before I could venture to raise my eyes to his. I thought of what
he had said, and of the studied tenderness of voice with which he had
spoken, all through our lengthened walk, and until I rested upon my
pillow; and the strange sensations it awakened came over my spirit in
repeated dreams.

Thus forewarned, as I thought, I was not slow in afterwards detecting
fresh manifestations of a tenderer interest for me than I had supposed
it possible for him to entertain.

One evening in November, when the moon was shining with her softest
lustre through the deep haze peculiar to our Indian summer, he came as
usual to our little homestead. Somehow, I can scarcely tell why, I had
been expecting him. He had dropped something the previous evening which
had awakened in my mind the deepest feeling, and I was half sure that he
would come. I felt that there were quicker pulses dancing through my
veins, a flutter in my heart such as no previous experience had brought,
a doubt, a fear, an expectation, as well as an alarm, which no
reflection could analyze, no language could describe, all contending
within me for ascendancy. Who that has human sympathies, who that is
young as I was, diffident of herself, and comparatively alone and
friendless, will wonder that I should be thus overcome, or reproach me
for giving way to impulses which I felt it impossible to control? There
was a terror of the future, which even recollection of the happy past
was powerless to dissipate. Society, even books, became irksome, and I
went out into the garden alone, there to have uninterrupted communion
with myself.

There was an old arbor in a by-place of the garden, covered with creeper
and honeysuckle, and though rudely built, yet there was a quiet
retirement about it that I felt would be grateful to my spirit. Its
ru