o the end of my life or of yours; as if you were my
sister or almost my child."

"Dear Richard," I whispered, as I buried my face on his arm, "if it were
not for you I should not live through this dreadful time. I hope I shall
die soon; as soon as I am better. But till I do die, I hope you will be
good to me, and love me." And I pressed his hand against my cheek and
lips, like the poor, frantic, grief-bewildered child that I was.

At this moment there came a sound of movement in the stables: I heard
one of the heavy doors thrown open, and a man leading a horse across the
stable-floor. (The windows were open and the night was very still.)
Richard started, and looked uneasily at his watch, stepping to the door
to get the light.

"How late is it?" I faltered.

"Half-past three," he said, turning his eyes away, as if he could not
bear the sight of my face. I do not like to remember the dreadful
moments that followed this: the misery that I put upon Richard by my
passionate, ungoverned grief. I threw myself upon the floor, I clung to
his knees, I prayed him to delay the hour of going--another hour,
another day. I said all the wild and frantic things that were in my
heart, as he closed the library-door and led me to my room.

"Try to say your prayers, Pauline," was all he could answer me.

I did try to say them, as I knelt by the window, and saw in the dull,
gray dawn, those two carriages drive slowly from the door.

Richard went away alone. Kilian indeed came down-stairs just as he was
starting.

Sophie had awakened, and called him into her room for a few moments.

Then he came down, and I saw him get into the carriage alone, and motion
the man to drive on, after that other--which stood waiting a few rods
farther on.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A JOURNEY.

He, full of modesty and truth,
Loved much, hoped little, and desired nought.

_Tasso_.

Fresh grief can occupy itself
With its own recent smart;
It feeds itself on outward things,
And not on its own heart.

_Faber_

A thing which surprises me very much in looking over those days of
suffering, is, that during that day a frightful irritability is the
emotion that I most remember--an irritability of feeling, not of
expression: for I lay quite still upon the bed all day, and only
answered, briefly and simply, the questions of Sophie and the maid.

I could not sleep: it was many hours since I had slept: but nothin