“On the day of the last concert, I imparted the secret of my intended journey to a person who, I felt tolerably sure, would rush at once to Margaret with the news.  Then, in the evening, I went for her; I was conscious that my manner towards her was a little more tender, or rather, a little less coldly courteous, that night, than it had usually been of late; for my feelings were softened, and I had never seen her so lovely.  I had never before known what a treasure I was about to lose.  The subject of my voyage was not mentioned, and if she had heard of it, she accepted the fact without the least visible concern.  Her quietness under the circumstances chilled me,—­disheartened me quite.  I am not one of those who can give much superfluous love, or cling with unreasonable, blind passion to an object that yields no affection in return.  A quick and effectual method of curing a fancy in persons of my temperament is to teach them that it is not reciprocated.  Then it expires like a flame cut off from the air, or a plant removed from the soil.  The death-struggle, the uprooting, is the painful thing; but when the heart is thoroughly convinced that its love is misplaced, it gives up, with one last sigh as big as fate, sheds a few tears, says a prayer or two, thanks God for the experience, and becomes a wiser, calmer,—­yes, and a happier heart than before.”

“True,” I said; “but our hearts are not thus easily convinced.”

“Ay, there’s the rub.  It is for want of a true perception.  There cannot be a true love without a true perception.  Love is for the soul to know, from its own intuition,—­not for the understanding to believe, from the testimony of those very unreliable witnesses, called eyes and ears.  This seems to have been my case,—­my soul was aware of her love, and all the evidence of my external senses could not altogether destroy that interior faith.  But that evening I said,—­’I believe you now, my senses!  I doubt you now, my soul!—­she never loved me!’ So I was really very cold towards her—­for about twenty minutes.

“I walked home with her;—­we were both silent; but at the door she asked me to go in.  Here my calmness deserted me, and I could hardly hold my heart, while I replied,—­

“‘If you particularly wish it.’

“‘If I did not, I should not ask you,’ she said; and I went in.

“I was ashamed and vexed at myself for trembling so,—­for I was in a tremor from head to foot.  There was company in the parlors,—­some of Margaret’s friends.  I took my seat upon a sofa, and soon she came and sat by my side.

“‘I suppose,’ said one, ’Mr. Westwood has been telling Margaret all about it.’

“‘About what?’ Margaret inquired,—­and here the truth flashed upon me,—­the news of my proposed voyage had not yet reached her!  She looked at me with a troubled, questioning expression, and said,—­

“‘I felt that something was going to happen.  Tell me what it is.’