he kept her room, as I thought; and when I went up to
see, the room was empty. There were two letters there from her, one to
me and one to her mother. She said she left in that way, to save the
pain of farewells, and to avoid our useless persuasions against her
going. Isn't it terrible?--poor child! Why it seems only yesterday--"
And my good mother's lips drew suddenly down at the corners, and she
began to sniff spasmodically.

"But is it too late?" I asked, in a suddenly quieted voice. That the
brightness and beauty of Madge, which had been a part of my world
since I could remember, should have gone from about us, all in a
moment!--'twas a new thought, and a strange one. What a blank she
left, what a dulness!

"Too late, heaven knows!" said my mother, drying her eyes with a
handkerchief, and speaking brokenly. "As soon as Mrs. Faringfield read
the letters, which I had taken over at once, Fanny and Mr. Cornelius
started running for the wharves. But when they got there, the _Phoebe_
wasn't in sight. It had sailed immediately their trunks were aboard, I
suppose. Oh, to think of pretty Madge--what will become of her in that
great, bad London?"

"She has made her plans, no doubt, and knows what she is doing," said
I, with a little bitterness. "Poor Phil! Her father is much to blame."

When I told Tom, as soon as I reached the outpost, he gave a sudden,
ghastly, startled look; then collected himself, and glanced at the
sword with which he meant to fight that night.

"Why, I was afraid she would go," said he, in a strained voice; and
that was all.

Whenever I saw him during the rest of the evening, he was silent,
pale, a little shaky methought. He was not as I had been before my
maiden duel: blustering and gay, in a trance-like recklessness;
assuming self-confidence so well as to deceive even myself and carry
me buoyantly through. He seemed rather in suspense like that of a
lover who has to beg a stern father for a daughter's hand. As a slight
hurt will cause a man the greatest pain, and a severe injury produce
no greater, so will the apprehensions of a trivial ordeal equal in
effect those of a matter of life and death; there being a limit to
possible sensation, beyond which nature leaves us happily numb.
Sometimes, upon occasion, Tom smiled, but with a stiffness of
countenance; when he laughed, it was in a short, jerky, mechanical
manner. As for me, I was in different mood from that preceding my own
first trial of ar