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that they might flow unseen while I listened. The air was simple, sweet, and sad; it is still running in my head,--and so are the words:-- > `Farewell to thee! but not farewell There was no light there but the faint red glow of the neglected fire;--but I did not want a light; I only wanted to indulge my thoughts, unnoticed and undisturbed; and sitting down on a lob stool before the easy chair, I sunk my head upon its cushioned seat, and thought, and thought, until the tears gushed out again, and I wept like any child. Presently, however, the door was gently opened and someone entered the room. I trusted it was only a servant, and did not stir. The door was closed again--but I was not alone: a hand gently touched my shoulder, and a voice said, softly-- `Helen, what is the matter?' I could not answer at the moment. `You must and shall tell me,' was added, more vehemently, and the speaker threw himself on his knees, beside me on the rug, and forcibly possessed himself of my hand; but I hastily caught it away, and replied-- `It is nothing to you, Mr Huntingdon.' `Are you sure it is nothing to me?' he returned; `can you swear that you were not thinking of me while you wept?' This was unendurable. I made an effort to rise, but he was kneeling on my dress. `Tell me,' continued he--`I want to know,--because, if you were, I have something to say to you,--and if not, I'll go.' |
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