I might then have cried out against this self-sacrifice; but there is something sacred in such an interview, and I could not thrust myself upon it.  I wish now that I had done so.  But then I listened in silence—­grief-struck—­to the rejection of him she loved,—­to the farewells.  I saw the long-clasped hands severed with an effort and a shudder; I saw my proud sister offer and give a kiss far more fervent than that which she received in return;—­for she felt that this was a final parting, and her heart was full of love and sorrow; while in his there lingered both hope and anger,—­hope that I would recover, and release her,—­resentment because she could sacrifice him to me.

And yet, after the parting, Kate had but just turned from him, when a change came over his countenance, at first of enthusiastic admiration, then of a yet more burning pain.  He walked quickly after her, caught her in his arms, and dashing away tears, that they might not fall upon her face, he kissed her passionately, and said, “It is hard that I must say it, but you are right, Lina!  Oh, my God! must I lose such a woman?”

Kate, trembling, panting, stamped her foot and cried, “Go, go!—­I cannot stand it!—­go!” Ah, Mary! that poor, pale face!  He went.  Kate made one quick, terrified, instantly restrained motion of recall, which he did not see; but I did, and I fainted with the pang it gave me.

When I recovered consciousness, I found my sister bending over me, blaming herself for neglecting me for so long a time, and calling herself a cruel, faithless nurse, with acute self-reproach!—­There’s woman for you!

I told her what I had overheard, and protested against what she had done.  She said I must not talk now,—­I was too ill; she would listen to me to-morrow.  The next day I broached the subject again, as she sat by my side, reading the evening paper.  She put her finger on a paragraph and handed it to me.  I read that one of the steamships had sailed at twelve o’clock that day.  “He is in it,” Kate said, and left the room.—­He is in Europe by this time.

Helpless wretch that I am!

Are not Kate’s whole head and heart, and all, under the dominion of
Heaven’s best angels?

II.

March, 1855.

And now, dear Mary, I intend to let you into our household affairs.  This illness has brought me one blessing,—­a home.  It has plunged me into the bosom of domestic life, and I find things there exceedingly amusing.  Things commonplace to others are very novel and interesting to me, from my long residence in hotels, and perfect ignorance of how the pot was kept boiling from which my dinners came.

But before you enter the house, take a look at the outside, and let me localize myself in your imagination.  Bosky Dell is a compact little place of ten acres, covered mostly with a dense grove, and cut into two unequal parts by a brawling, rocky stream.  The house—­a little cottage, draped with vines, and porched—­sits on a slope, with an orchard on one side, a tiny lawn bordered with flowers on another, the shade of the grove darkening the windows of a third, and on the fourth a kitchen-garden with strawberry-beds and grape-trellises.  It is a pretty little place, and full of cosy corners.  My favorite one I must describe.