them from
me. I could bear it no longer, and with an energetic oath sprang up,
knocking the astonished Tom back into my place, and extorting a little
cry of surprise from Miss Dora, as I strode away toward the village,
determined to shake its dust from my feet, and never again look upon the
faces of the precious couple I had left. I rushed through my aunt's
kitchen like a whirlwind, on my way, and bade her good-by.

'Good-by, Georgy? what does the boy mean?' said she. She was phlegmatic
and slow.

'I mean I shall never see you again, aunty. God bless you, I'm going
away.'

'Hoity-toity, nonsense!' said she; 'some folly of yours and Dora's;
never mind her, a silly girl! you'll be my own boy yet, my dear; but
you're dripping wet, George; you have been in the water, you'll take
cold, child; here swallow this,' and mingling spirituous with spiritual
comfort, the good old lady poured a fiery glass of brandy down my
throat, and I poured out my sorrowful story into her motherly ear, as I
had done when an orphan boy, and all my life since, waxing warm with
anger and contempt as I told it, while her benignant face showed no
symptom of the indignation that glowed in mine; she pitied and soothed
me, but made no comment.

'So good-by, aunty,' said I, as I finished, in a tone tremulous with
weakness and wrath; '_you_ love me, if Dora does not, and _you_ will
remember me kindly I know.' I wrung her hand and kissed her cheek, but
she never shed a tear; she had been wont to weep like a watering pot
when I went back to school or college after a visit, and I had always
left her, loaded with biscuits and blessings, thankless prodigal that I
was! and disposed to laugh at her display of maternal sorrow. How
grateful to my wounded and sorrowful spirit, my outraged heart, would
such a demonstration of love now have been! but all were alike heartless
and cold to-day, and she smiled serenely under my parting kiss, and
said, as I ran down the steps, 'Promise me not to go before you are well
rested in the morning, Georgy; the coach does not pass through till
eleven, and you'll come back, if I have occasion to send for you--before
then--professionally?'

I bowed assent; what could I do? and, cut to the heart, went slowly and
wearily home. I do not know how or by which way I arrived there, or whom
or what I passed upon the road; I saw nothing but the darkness of my
fortune, and felt nothing but the terrible sorrow that consumed my
heart. Ph