She wrote an affectionate letter to Edward, informing him of the change in her circumstances and her present occupation, saying she did not think the occupation would diminish her worth, or tarnish her good name.

He answered it by requesting her to leave her employment, and offering to pay her board if she would do so; but she preferred being independent, and thought she would remain and earn what she could to help herself; and there the matter dropped, she working on two weary years.  Often did she visit the Island, gaze upon the name of Edward, and recall the scenes of that and many other evenings.

Many of the companions of that evening had united their destinies for life—­many had left the village, and some had closed their eyes forever upon the things of earth, and entered upon the untried scenes of eternity.

It was the close of a dreary autumn day, when the withered leaves rustled before the cold chilly winds, and the dust was hurried on in eddying torrents, that there came a whispered report to the ear of Annie that Edward had returned from Boston.  Her heart beat violently, and she could scarcely stand upon her feet, as she contemplated the pleasure of seeing him again, after so long an absence.  Many were the cordial greetings she received from her merry companions, upon the occasion.  She hurried home, eager with expectation, wondering, as she judged him by the tumultuous beatings of her own heart, he did not seek her sooner.  As she passed on to her boarding place, she saw him standing at a distance, in conversation with his brother, and although his back was towards her, she mentally exclaimed,

“It is indeed my own Edward.”

She made her toilet with great care, and dressed herself in such colors as were pleasing to him, arranging her hair in the way that he had so often praised.  The fire diffused a cheerful glow round the comfortable apartment.  Annie seated herself by the window, momentarily expecting his arrival.  She took up a book and tried to read.  Hour passed after hour, and still she listened in vain for his well known footsteps.  The clock struck nine; the fire had gone out upon the hearth, and the autumnal gale whistled mournfully round and swayed the branches of a leafless tree that stood beneath her window.

Annie arose, extinguished her light, and again seated herself by the window, leaning her cheek upon her hand, with her elbow resting upon the window stool, she sat looking back into the silent chambers of the past.

The wan, declining moon looked coldly down upon her, as it peeped out behind

      —­“the broken parted clouds,
  Brightening their dark brown sides.”