So I came away from the temptation while I could, and plunged into my proper work on earth, and found relief; but I loved her still.

Shall I speak of the correspondence which ensued between the squire and myself?  ’Twas a somewhat singular one, and revealed to me something which I was before quite ignorant of.  It is here beneath my hand; let us look at it.  It passed soon after my departure: 

    “Barrington Hall, Nov. 20, 18—.

    “My dear young friend: 

“Since your somewhat abrupt departure, I have considered that event with some attention, and fear that it was occasioned by a want of kindness in myself, or some member of my family.  I saw with regret that Mrs. Barrington did not seem to look upon you with as much favor as I hoped.  If any word or action of mine has wounded you, I pray you to forget and pardon it.

    “Your friend,

    “C.  Barrington.

    “P.S.  Pray present my best regards to your mother, who was
    many long years ago, a very dear friend of mine.”

My reply was in the following words: 

    “My dear Mr. Barrington: 

“Pray set your mind at rest upon the subject of my somewhat hasty departure:  ’twas caused by no want of courtesy in any member of the household at the hall, but by unavoidable circumstances.  You will not think me wanting in candor or sincerity when I add that I think these circumstances were better not alluded to at present.

    “Truly and faithfully,

    “St. George cleave.”

Thus ended then our correspondence.  Three years afterward I received another letter, in a handwriting somewhat tremulous and broken.  It contained simply the words: 

    “I am very ill; if your convenience will permit, may I ask
    you to come and see me, my young friend?

    “C.  Barrington.”

I need not say that I went at once.  As I approached the old manor house a thousand memories knocked at the door of my heart.  There were the fields over which I had rambled; there was the emerald lawn where so often I had wandered in the long-gone days of earlier years.  The great oak against which I had leaned on that evening to watch the sun in his setting, and where Annie had whispered and pointed to my torn elbow, still raised its head proudly, and embowered the old gables in the bright-tinted foliage of autumn.

I entered.  The old portraits I had loved seemed to smile; they saluted me sweetly, as in other hours; the old mansion appeared to welcome me—­I saw no change, but Annie was not singing in the hall.

All at once I heard a light tinkling footstep; my heart beat violently, and I felt a blush rise to my cheeks.  Was the queenly woman who came to meet and greet me, indeed the Annie of old days?  I held the small hand, and looked into the deep eyes for some moments without uttering a word.  She was taller, more slender, but her carriage possessed a grace and elegance a thousand times finer than before.  Her eyes were filled with the strangest sweetness, and swam with tears as she gazed at me.