“On the day before that fixed for the sailing of the steamer, I made farewell calls upon many of my friends,—­among others, upon Margaret.  But, through the perversity of pride and will, I did not go alone,—­I took with me Joseph, a mutual acquaintance, who was to be my compagnon de voyage.  I felt some misgivings, to see how Margaret had changed; she was so softened, and so pale!

“The interview was a painful one, and I cut it short.  As we were going out, she gently detained me, and said,—­

“‘Did you receive—­your glove?’

“‘Oh, yes,’ I said, and thanked her for mending it.

“‘And is this all—­all you have to say?’ she asked.

“‘I have nothing more to say—­except good-bye.’

“She held my hand.  ‘Nothing else?’

“’No,—­it is useless to talk of the past, Margaret; and the future—­may you be happy!—­Good-bye!’

“I thought she would speak; I could not believe she would let me go; but she did!  I bore up well, until night.  Then came a revulsion.  I walked three times past the house, wofully tempted, my love and my will at cruel warfare; but I did not go in.  At midnight I saw the light in her room extinguished; I knew she had retired, but whether to sleep, or weep, or pray—­how could I tell?  I went home.  I did not close my eyes that night.  I was glad to see the morning come, after such a night!

“The steamer was to sail at ten.  The bustle of embarkation; strange scenes and strange faces; parting from friends; the ringing of the bell; last adieus,—­some, who were to go with us, hurrying aboard, others, who were to stay behind, as hastily going ashore; the withdrawal of the plank,—­sad sight to many eyes! casting off the lines, the steamer swinging heavily around, the rushing, irregular motion of the great, slow paddles; the waving of handkerchiefs from the decks, and the responsive signals from the crowd lining the wharf; off at last,—­the faces of friends, the crowd, the piers, and, lastly, the city itself, fading from sight; the dash of spray, the freshening breeze, the novel sight of our little world detaching itself and floating away; the feeling that America was past, and Europe was next;—­all this filled my mind with animation and excitement, which shut out thoughts of Margaret.  Could I have looked with clairvoyant vision, and beheld her then, locked in her chamber, should I have been so happy?  Oh, what fools vanity and pride make of us!  Even then, with my heart high-strung with hope and courage, had I known the truth, I should have abandoned my friends, the voyage, and Europe, and returned in the pilot’s boat, to find something more precious than all the continents and countries of the globe, in the love of that heart which I was carelessly flinging away.”

Here Westwood took breath.  The sun was now almost set.  The prairie was still and cool; the heavy dews were beginning to fall; the shadows of the green and flowered undulations filled the hollows, like a rising tide; the headland, seen at first so far and small, was growing gradually large and near; and the horses moved at a quicker pace.  Westwood lighted his cigar, drew a few whiffs, and proceeded.