age, was to run up to his chamber. She knocked at the half-open
door, her heart beating with as much anxiety for _fear_ the knock should
be answered, as many another heart has beaten in fear that such a signal
would _not_ meet a response. But there was no reply. She flung the door
timidly open, and went in. Everything in the apartment remained as she
had arranged it in the morning for (as she supposed) her own bridal
chamber. The Colonel's valise and some portions of his clothing, had not
been removed, and this seemed to render impossible the supposition that
he had really left the village. But his sudden absence _at all_, after
what had occurred, gave ground to believe that some extraordinary
movement had really been made; and on the little table, after a moment,
the young girl discovered the note to Josephine Harris, directed under
her own care. It was sealed, and even had it not been, propriety would
have prevented her ascertaining the contents; but the very fact of there
being such a reply left, for _her_ to deliver, told that the shot must
have sped home, and that the expected bridegroom had indeed fled from
his bridal.

How the young girl managed to walk to her own room and once more array
herself for the street, with that dizzy sensation in her head, half of
joy, half of fright--how she silently and swiftly quitted the house
again, and made her way through the blazing afternoon sunshine, once
more to the little house of Mrs. Halstead,--she will probably never
know. People have walked in dreams, and others have done acts while
under the influence of _waking_ sleep, for which they were scarcely
responsible. It is enough to say that at three o'clock that afternoon
Josephine Harris was aroused from the sound slumber by which her
sick-headache was being rapidly cured--once more to receive the young
girl, whom she had little expected to see so soon.

When she descended the stairs, she found Mary Crawford standing alone
within the door of the sitting-room, Susan, who had admitted her,
having shown the innate delicacy of the good by retiring with only a
kind word and a sisterly kiss. The moment Josephine entered the room and
saw Mary standing there, her eyes full of unnatural brightness, her
cheeks all aglow with excitement like that of fever, and her glorious
auburn hair rudely dishevelled under her gipsy hat,--she knew that her
own effort had not failed--that surprise, and not disappointment, was
the feeling written u