kept treading remorselessly to and fro in their old footsteps, while slumber left me impotent to regulate them.  It was not till I had quitted my three friends that they first began to encroach upon my dreams.  In those of the last night, Hollingsworth and Zenobia, standing on either side of my bed, had bent across it to exchange a kiss of passion.  Priscilla, beholding this,—­for she seemed to be peeping in at the chamber window,—­had melted gradually away, and left only the sadness of her expression in my heart.  There it still lingered, after I awoke; one of those unreasonable sadnesses that you know not how to deal with, because it involves nothing for common-sense to clutch.

It was a gray and dripping forenoon; gloomy enough in town, and still gloomier in the haunts to which my recollections persisted in transporting me.  For, in spite of my efforts to think of something else, I thought how the gusty rain was drifting over the slopes and valleys of our farm; how wet must be the foliage that overshadowed the pulpit rock; how cheerless, in such a day, my hermitage—­the tree-solitude of my owl-like humors—­in the vine-encircled heart of the tall pine!  It was a phase of homesickness.  I had wrenched myself too suddenly out of an accustomed sphere.  There was no choice, now, but to bear the pang of whatever heartstrings were snapt asunder, and that illusive torment (like the ache of a limb long ago cut off) by which a past mode of life prolongs itself into the succeeding one.  I was full of idle and shapeless regrets.  The thought impressed itself upon me that I had left duties unperformed.  With the power, perhaps, to act in the place of destiny and avert misfortune from my friends, I had resigned them to their fate.  That cold tendency, between instinct and intellect, which made me pry with a speculative interest into people’s passions and impulses, appeared to have gone far towards unhumanizing my heart.

But a man cannot always decide for himself whether his own heart is cold or warm.  It now impresses me that, if I erred at all in regard to Hollingsworth, Zenobia, and Priscilla, it was through too much sympathy, rather than too little.

To escape the irksomeness of these meditations, I resumed my post at the window.  At first sight, there was nothing new to be noticed.  The general aspect of affairs was the same as yesterday, except that the more decided inclemency of to-day had driven the sparrows to shelter, and kept the cat within doors; whence, however, she soon emerged, pursued by the cook, and with what looked like the better half of a roast chicken in her mouth.  The young man in the dress-coat was invisible; the two children, in the story below, seemed to be romping about the room, under the superintendence of a nursery-maid.  The damask curtains of the drawing-room, on the first floor, were now fully displayed, festooned gracefully from top to bottom of the windows, which extended from the ceiling to the carpet.  A narrower window, at the left of the drawing-room, gave light to what was probably a small boudoir, within which I caught the faintest imaginable glimpse of a girl’s figure, in airy drapery.  Her arm was in regular movement, as if she were busy with her German worsted, or some other such pretty and unprofitable handiwork.