No matter:  it was what I raged and died for, just one look, just one word more.  He had said he would never look into my eyes again:  that haunted me and made me superstitious.  I would make him look at me.  I would seize his hand and kneel before him, and tell him I should die if he did not speak to me once more.  Once more!  Just once, out of years, out of forever.  I had thrown duty, conscience, thought to the winds.  I had but one fear—­that we should be finally separated without that word spoken, that look exchanged.  I said to myself again and again, I shall die, if I cannot speak to him again.  Beyond that I did not look.  What better I should be after that speaking I did not care.  I only longed and looked for that as a relief from the insufferable agony of my fate.  One cannot take in infinite wretchedness:  it is our nature to make dates and periods to our sorrows in our imagination.

And so that horrid afternoon and evening passed, amid the racket and babel of visitors and visiting.  I followed almost blindly, and did as the others did.  The next morning dawned bright and cold.  What a day for summer!  The sun was brilliant, but the wind came from over icebergs; it seemed like “winter painted green.”

We were to start at nine o’clock.  I was ready early, waiting on the piazza for the aid to fate that was to keep me from the punishment of going.  No human being had spoken his name that morning.  How should I know whether he were still so ill or no.

The hour for starting had arrived.  Richard, who never kept long out of sight of me, was busy loading the wagon that was to accompany us, with baskets of things to eat, and with wines and fruits.  Kilian was engrossed in arranging the seats and cushions in the two carriages which had just driven to the door.

Mary Leighton was fluttering about the flower-bed at the left of the piazza, making herself lovely with geranium and roses.  Sophie, in a beautiful costume, was pacifying Charley, who had had a difference with his uncle Kilian.  Charlotte and Henrietta were busy in their small way over a little basket of preserves; and two or three of the neighboring gentlemen, who were to drive with us, were approaching the house by a side-entrance.

In a moment or two we should be ready to be off.  What should I do?  I was frantic with the thought that he might be worse, he might go away.  I was to be absent such a length of time.  I must—­I would see him before we went.  What better moment than the present, when everybody was engaged in this fretting, foolish picnic.  I would run up-stairs—­call to him outside his door—­make him speak to me.

With a guilty look around, I started up, stole through the group on the piazza, and ran to the stairs.  But alas, Richard had not failed to mark my movements, and before my foot had touched the stair his voice recalled me.  I started with a guilty look, and trembled, but dared not meet his eye.