The beautiful scenery of the Hudson was unappreciated by one eye of the many brilliant ones that looked out from the majestic boat, that, in the language of Carlyle, “travelled on fire-wings,” through the looming highlands.  The watchful mother strove hard to divert the mind of her child, but in vain.  Her heart was away from the present reality; and no effort of her own could bring it back.  It was night when the boat arrived, and no chance offered for writing before retiring to bed.  It seemed, indeed, as if the mother, suspicious that some communication would be made in this way, kept so about Constance all the next day, that she had no chance of dropping Theodore even a line to say where she was, and that she still remembered him with affection.  And the next day passed in the same way; not an hour, not a moment could she get for privacy or uninterrupted self-communion.  At last she determined to write to Laura Wykoff, to which, of course, her mother could make no objection.  But she dared not mention the name of Theodore, or allude to her present restrained condition, except remotely, for fear that her mother would ask to see the letter.  This letter was given to a servant to convey to the post-office, in the presence of her mother.  It never reached its destination.  And the mother knew well the reason why.  In it, she asked an immediate answer.  Day after day passed, and no answer came.  She wrote again, and with the same success.  Finally, she gained a few minutes to pen a line or two to Theodore, which she concealed, suspecting that there was something wrong about the transmission of the letters, until a chance offered for having it certainly placed in the right channel of conveyance.  This note reached Theodore, and removed a mountain from his feelings.  He had learned of her hasty journey to Albany, but this was all he could ascertain, and suspecting the cause, his mind was in a state of racking and painful suspense.

Day after day passed, until a month had expired, and still there was no indication of a movement to return home.  Once or twice a week her father would come up from New York, and to the persuasions of the relatives at whose house they were visiting, half-consented that Constance and her mother should stay all summer.  Finally, it was decided, that Albany should be their place of residence for some months.

Things assuming this decided appearance, Constance now set herself resolutely to work to circumvent her mother’s careful surveillance.  It was the first time in her life that she had seriously determined to act towards the parent she had so long and so tenderly loved, with duplicity.  All at once she became more cheerful, and seemed to enter with a joyful spirit into every plan proposed for spending the time pleasantly.  With a sprightly cousin, a young girl of her own age, she cultivated a close intimacy, and finding her somewhat romantic and independent, finally confided to her the secret that was wearing into her heart from concealment.