“I do not wrongly interpret, I presume, a silence continued far beyond the time agreed upon when we parted.  You have rejected my suit.  Well, be it so; and may you be happy with him who has found favor in your eyes.  I do not think he can love you more sincerely than I do, or he more devoted to your happiness than I should have been.  It would have relieved the pain I cannot but feel, if you had deemed my offer worthy a frank refusal.  But, to feel that one I have so truly loved does not think me even deserving of this attention, is humiliating in the extreme.  But, I will not upbraid you.  Farewell!  May you be happy.”

Sealing Up his epistle, the young man, scarcely pausing even for hurried reflection, threw it into the post office.  This done, he sunk into a gloomy state of mind, in which mortification and disappointment struggled alternately for the predominance.

Only a few hours elapsed after the adoption of this hasty course, before doubts of its propriety began to steal across his mind.  It was possible, it occurred to him, that he might have acted too precipitately.  There might be reasons for the silence of Miss Weldon entirely separate from those he had been too ready to assume; and, if so, how strange would his letter appear.  It was too late now to recall the act, for already the mail that bore his letter was half way from New York to Albany.  A restless night succeeded to this day.  Early on the next morning he received a letter.  It was in these words—­

“My dear Mr. Florence:—­I have been very ill, and to-day am able to sit up just long enough to write a line or two.  My uncle was in New York some days ago, but did not meet with you.  Will you not come up and see me?

“Ever Yours, Clara Weldon.”

Florence was on board the next boat that left New York for Albany.  The letter of Clara was, of course, written before the receipt of his hasty epistle.  What troubled him now was the effect of this epistle on her mind.  He had not only wrongly interpreted her silence, but had assumed the acceptance of another lover as confidently as if he knew to an certainty that such was the case.  This was a serious matter and might result in the very thing he had been so ready to assume—­the rejection of his suit.

Arriving at length, in Albany, Mr. Florence sought out the residence of Miss Weldon.

“Is Colonel Richards at home?” he inquired.

On being answered in the affirmative he sent up his name, with a request to see him.  The colonel made his appearance in short time.  He was a tall, thoughtful looking man, and bowed with a dignified air as he came into the room.

“How is Miss Weldon?” asked Florence, with an eagerness he could not restrain.

“Not so well this morning,” replied the guardian.  “She had a bad night.”

“No wonder,” thought the young man, “after receiving that letter.”