et, though I like it on that
account more than I did, I don't read somehow so earnestly and
understand so well as I used to do when my mind was all at ease, always
frolicsome, and ever upon _tiptoe_, as I may say.

How strangely (have you not observed it?) I am altered of late!--I, that
was ever light of heart, the very soul of gayety, brimfull of glee, am
now demure as our old _tabby_--and not half as wise. Tabby had wit
enough to keep her paws out of the coals, whereas poor I have--but no
matter what. It will never come to pass, I see that. So many reasons for
every thing! Such looking forward! Arthur, are not men sometimes too
_wise_ to be happy?

I am now _so_ grave. Not one smile can Peggy sometimes get from me,
though she tries for it the whole day. But I know how it comes. Strange,
indeed, if, losing father and sister, and thrown upon the wide world,
penniless and _friendless_ too, now that _you_ forget me, I should
continue to smile. No. I never shall smile again. At least, while I stay
here, I never shall, I believe.

If a certain somebody suffer me to live with him,--_near_ him, I
mean,--perhaps the sight of him as he enters the door, perhaps the sound
of his voice, asking, "Where is my Bess?" might produce a smile. Such a
one as the very thought produces now,--yet not, I hope, so transient,
and so quickly followed by a tear. Women are born, they say, to trouble,
and tears are given them for their relief. 'Tis all very true.

Let it be as I wish, will you? If Oliver bring not back good tidings, if
he bring not a letter from thee, or thy letter still refuses my
request,--I don't know what may happen. Consent, if you love your poor
girl.

E.H.

CHAPTER XLV.

The reading of this letter, though it made me mournful, did not hinder
me from paying the visit I intended. My friend noticed my discomposure.

"What, Arthur! thou art quite the 'penseroso' to-night. Come, let me
cheer thee with a song. Thou shalt have thy favourite ditty." She
stepped to the instrument, and, with more than airy lightness, touched
and sung:--

"Now knit hands and beat the ground
In a light, fantastic round,
Till the telltale sun descry
Our conceal'd solemnity."

Her music, though blithsome and aerial, was not sufficient for the end.
My cheerfulness would not return even at her bidding. She again noticed
my sedateness, and inquired into the cause.

"This girl of mine,"