At last I summoned all my courage and rose to depart.

“I will not say good-bye,” I said, in a strange, hollow voice; “I will only shake hands, and bid you good-night.”

I shook hands with them all,—­Jane last.  Her hand was as cold as clay.  I dared not try to speak, but rushed abruptly from the house.  Another long night of misery!

When I judged, from the sounds below stairs, that my little servant had breakfast ready, I went down and forced myself to eat; for I was feeling deathly faint, and knew I needed food.  I gave directions for the disposition of some remaining articles, and for closing the house, then walked rapidly towards the public-house in the village, where my trunks had already been carried.  I was very glad that I should not have to pass the Woods’.  I saw the girls out in their garden just before I left, and took a last long look, but was sorry I did; it did me no good.

I was to go to Boston in the stage, and then take a vessel to New York, whence I might sail for any part of the world.  When I arrived at the tavern, the Boston stage was just in, and the driver handed me a letter.  It was from the mate of the vessel, saying that his sailing would be delayed two days, and requesting me to take a message from him to his family, who lived in a small village six miles back from what was called the stage-road.  I went on horseback, performed my errand, dined with the family, and returned at dark to the inn.  After supper, it occurred to me to go to the Woods’ and surprise them.  I wanted to see just what they were doing, and just how they looked,—­just how she looked.  But a moment’s reflection convinced me that I had much better not.  But be quiet I could not, and I strolled out of the back-door of the inn, and so into a wide field behind.  There was a moon, but swift dark clouds were flying across it, causing alternate light and shadow.  I strayed on through field and meadow, hardly knowing whither I went, yet with a half-consciousness that I should find myself at the end by my mother’s grave.  I felt, therefore, no surprise when I saw that I was approaching, through a field at the back of my garden, the old elm-tree.  As I drew near the grave, the moon, appearing from behind a cloud, showed me the form of a woman leaning against the tree.  She wore no bonnet,—­nothing but a shawl thrown over her head.  Her face was turned from me, but I knew those features, even in the indistinct moonlight, and my heart gave a sudden leap, as I pressed eagerly forward.  She turned in affright, half screamed, half ran, then, recognizing me, remained still as a statue.

“Mr. Allen, you here?  I thought you were gone,” she said, at last.

“Jane, you here?” said I.  “You ought not; the night is damp; you will get sick.”

Nevertheless, I went on talking, told what had detained me, described my journey and visit, and inquired after her family, as if I had been a month absent.  I never talked so easily before; for I knew she was not looking in my face, and forgot how my voice might betray me.  I spoke of my mother, of how much she was to me, of my utter loneliness, and even of my plans for the future.