Richard was at the head of the movement—­Richard with his sober cares and weary look.  But the incongruity struck no one; they were too glad to be amused.  Even Sophie brightened up.  Charlotte was ready to throw her energies into any active scheme, hospital or picnic, charity-school or kettle-drum.

“To-morrow will be just the sort of day for it,” said Richard, “cool and fine.  And half the pleasure of a picnic is not having time to get tired of it beforehand.”

“That’s very true,” said Charlotte; “but I don’t see how we’re going to get everybody notified and everything in order for nine o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“Nothing easier,” said Kilian; “we’ll go, directly after tea, to the De Witts and Prentices, and send Thomas with a note to the Lowders.  Sophie has done her part in shorter time than that, very often; and I don’t believe we should be starved, if she only gave half an hour’s notice to the cook.”

What is heavier than pleasure-seeking in which one has no pleasure?  I shall never forget the misery of those plans and that bustle.  I dared not absent myself, and I could scarcely carry out my part for very heavy-heartedness.  It seemed to me that I could not bear it, if the hour came, and I should have to drive away with all that merry party, and leave poor Mr. Langenau for a long, long day alone.

I felt sure something would occur to release me:  it could not be that I should have to go.  With the exaggeration of youth, it seemed to me an impossibility that I could endure anything so grievous.  How I hated all the careless, thoughtless, happy household!  Only Richard, enemy as he was to my happiness, seemed endurable to me.  For Richard was not merry-making in his heart, and I was sure he was sorry for me all the time he was trying to oppose me.

Mr. Langenau was again in the Doctor’s care, who came that evening, and who said to Richard, in my hearing, he must be kept quiet; he didn’t altogether like his symptoms.

Richard had his hands full, with great matters and small.  Sophie had washed hers of the invalid; there had been some sharpish words between the sister and brother on the matter, I imagine, and the result was, Richard was the only one who did or would do anything for his comfort and safety.

That day, after appearing at dinner, he came no more.  I watched with feverish anxiety every step, every sound; but he came not.  I knew that the Doctor’s admonitions would not have much weight, nor yet Richard’s opinion.  I had the feeling that if he would only speak to me, only look at me once, it would ease that horrible oppression and pain which I was suffering.  The agony I was enduring was so intolerable, and its real relief so impossible, like a child I caught at some fancied palliation, and craved only that.  What would one look, one word be—­out of a lifetime of silence and separation.