“Come, my young troubadour, bring your guitar and sit down upon this cushion at my feet and play an accompaniment to my song, as I sing and work.”

And Ishmael, filled with joy, would fly to obey the royal mandate; and soon seated at the beauty’s feet, in the glow of the warm wood fire and in the glory of her heavenly presence, he would lose himself in a delicious dream of love and music.  No one ever interrupted their tete-a-tete.  And Ishmael grew to feel that he belonged to his liege lady; that they were forever inseparate and inseparable.  And thus his days passed in one delusive dream of bliss until the time came when he was rudely awakened.

One evening, as usual, he took leave of Claudia.  It was a bitter cold evening, and she took off her own crimson Berlin wool scarf and with her own fair hands wound it around Ishmael’s neck, and charged him to hasten home, because she knew that influenza would be lying in wait to seize any loitering pedestrian that night.

Ishmael ran home, as happy as it was in the power of man to make him.  How blest he felt in the possession of her scarf—­her fine, soft, warm scarf, deliciously filled with the aroma of Claudia’s own youth, beauty, and sweetness.  He felt that he was not quite separated from her while he had her scarf—­her dear scarf, with the warmth and perfume of her own neck yet within its meshes!  That night he only unwound it from his throat to fold it and lay it on his pillow that his cheek might rest upon it while he slept—­slept the sweetest sleep that ever visited his eyes.

Ah, poor, pale sleeper! this was the last happy night he was destined to have for many weeks and months.

In the morning he arose early as usual to hasten to school and—­to Claudia.  He wound her gift around his neck and set off at a brisk pace.  The weather was still intensely cold; but the winter sky was clear and the sunshine glittered “keen and bright” upon the crisp white snow.  Ishmael hurried on and reached Brudenell Hall just in time to see a large fur-covered sleigh, drawn by a pair of fine horses, shoot through, the great gates and disappear down the forest road.

A death-like feeling, a strange spasm, as if a hand of ice had clutched his heart, caught away Ishmael’s breath at the sight of that vanishing sleigh.  He could not rationally account for this feeling; but soon as he recovered his breath he inquired of old Jovial, who stood gazing after the sleigh.

“Who has gone away?”

“Miss Claudia, sir; her pa came after her last night—­”

“Claudia—­gone!” echoing Ishmael, reeling and supporting himself against the trunk of the bare old elm tree.

“It was most unexpected, sir; mist’ess sat up most all night to see to the packing of her clothes—­”

“Gone—­gone—­Claudia gone!” breathed Ishmael, in a voice despairing, yet so low, that it did not interrupt the easy flow of Jovial’s narrative.