The next day, William spoke to my uncle, who seemed to regard the matter in a light very different from ours.  He said, we were a mere boy and girl, that years must elapse before we could marry, and by that time we should very probably have outgrown our liking for each other; still, if we chose, we might consider ourselves engaged; he did not know that he had any objection to make.  This manner of treating the subject was not a flattering one; however, we had his consent,—­and that was the main point, after all.

So we were troth-plight; and William went forth on his career of labor and success, and I remained at home, loving him, living for him, striving to make my every act what he would have it.  I went into company as he had bidden me; I studied and improved myself; I grew handsomer, too.  All who saw me noticed and approved the alteration in my appearance.  I was no longer awkward and stooping; my manner had acquired something of ease and gracefulness; a faint bloom tinged my cheek and made my dark eyes brighter.  I was truly happy in the change; it seemed to render me a little more suited to him, who was so proudly, so splendidly handsome.

I remembered what he had said too well to spend much time in love-dreams; but my happiest moments were when I was alone, and could think of him, read his letters, look at his picture, and fancy the joyfulness of his return.

His letters!—­there the change first showed itself.  At first they were all, and more than all, I could wish.  I blushed to read the ardent words, as I did when he had spoken them.  But by-and-by there was a different tone:  I could not describe it; there was nothing to complain of; and yet I felt—­so surely!—­that something was wrong.  I never thought of blaming him; I dreaded lest I had in some way wounded his affection or his pride.  I asked no explanation; I thought to do so might annoy or vex him, for his was a peculiar nature.  I only wrote to him the more fondly,—­strove more and more to show him how my whole heart was his.  But the change grew plainer as months passed on; and some weeks before the time appointed for his return, the letters ceased altogether.

This conduct grieved me, certainly, yet I was more perplexed than unhappy.  It never occurred to me to doubt his love; I thought there must be some mistake, some offence unwittingly given, and I looked to his coming to clear away all doubt and trouble.  But I longed so for that coming!—­it seemed as if the weeks would never end.  I knew he loved me; but I needed to hear him say it once more,—­to have every shadow dispelled, and nothing between us but the warmest affection and fullest confidence.

In such a mood I met him.  The house was full of guests, and I could not bear to see him for the first time before so many eyes.  I had watched, as may well be believed, for his arrival, and a little before dark had seen him enter his mother’s house.  He would surely come over soon; I ran down the long walk, and paced up and down beneath the trees, awaiting him.  As soon as he came in sight I hastened toward him; he met me kindly, but the change that had been in his letters was plainer yet in his manner.  It struck a chill to my heart.