The night, or rather the morning, though clear overhead, was uncommonly dark; and the stars, what few could be discerned, shed only pale, faint gleams, as though their lights were about to be extinguished.  For some time both Algernon and Ella continued their journey without exchanging a syllable—­she too, as well as himself, being deeply absorbed in no very pleasant reflections.  She thought of him, of his hard fate, to meet with so many bitter disappointments at an age so young; and at last, for no premeditated, no intentional crime, be forced to fly from home and friends, and all he held dear, to wander in a far off land, among strangers—­or worse, among the solitudes of the wilderness—­exposed to a thousand dangers from wild savage beasts, and wilder and more savage human beings; and perhaps, withal, be branded as a felon and fugitive from justice.  She thought what must be his feelings, his sense of utter desolation, with none around to sympathize—­no sweet being by his side to whisper a single word of encouragement and hope; or, should the worst prove true, to share his painful lot, and endeavor to render less burdensome his remorseful thoughts, by smiles of endearment and looks of love.  She thought, too, that to-morrow—­perhaps today—­he would take his departure, peradventure never to behold her again; and this was the saddest of the train.  Until she saw him, Ella had never known what it was to love—­perchance she did not now—­but at least she had experienced those fluttering sensations, those deep and strange emotions, those involuntary yearnings of the heart toward some object in his presence, that aching void in his absence, which the more experienced would doubtless put down to that cause, and which no other being had ever even for a moment awakened in her breast.  For something like half an hour the two rode on together, buried in their own sad reflections, when Ella broke the silence, by saying, in a low, touching voice: 

“You seem sad to-night, Algernon.”

Algernon started, sighed heavily, and turning slightly on his saddle, said:  “I am sad, Ella—­very, very sad.”

“May I ask the cause?” rejoined Ella, gently.

“Doubtless you will think it strange, Ella, but the cause I believe to have originated in a waking vision or presentiment.”

“That does seem strange!” observed Ella, in return.

“Did it never strike you, dear Ella, that we are all strange beings, subject to strange influences, and destined, many of us, to strange ends?” inquired Reynolds, solemnly.

“Perhaps I do not understand you,” replied Ella; “but with regard to destiny, I am inclined to think that we in a measure shape our own.  As to our being strange, there are many things relating to us that we may not understand, and therefore look upon them in the light of which you speak.”