“True,” said his wife, and, then her, face was bent down so low that he could not see, its expression for the shadows by which it was partially concealed.

“We would both enjoy the trip exceedingly.”

“Both!  You did not think of taking me?”

“Why, Aggy, dear!—­as if I could dream for a moment of any pleasure in which you had not a share!”

So earnestly and tenderly was this said, that Mrs. Markland felt a thrill of joy tremble over her heart-strings.  And yet, for all, she could not keep back the overflowing tears, but hid her face, to conceal them, on her husband’s bosom.

Her true feelings Mr. Markland did not read:  and often, as he mused on what appeared singular in her manner that evening, he was puzzled to comprehend its meaning.  Nor had his vision ever penetrated deep enough to see all that was in her heart.

CHAPTER IV.

The memory of what passed between Mr. and Mrs. Markland remained distinct enough in both their minds, on the next morning, to produce thoughtfulness and reserve.  The night to each had been restless and wakeful; and in the snatches of sleep which came at weary intervals were dreams that brought no tranquillizing influence.

The mother’s daily duty, entered into from love to her children, soon lifted her mind into a sunnier region, and calmed her pulse to an even stroke.  But the spirit of Markland was more disturbed, more restless, more dissatisfied with himself and every thing around him, than when first introduced to the reader’s acquaintance.  He eat sparingly at the breakfast-table, and with only a slight relish.  A little forced conversation took place between him and his wife; but the thoughts of both were remote from the subject introduced.  After breakfast, Mr. Markland strolled over his handsome grounds, and endeavoured to awaken in his mind a new interest in what possessed so much of real beauty.  But the effort was fruitless; his thoughts were away from the scenes in which he was actually present.  Like a dreamy enthusiast on the sea-shore, he saw, afar off, enchanted Islands faintly pictured on the misty horizon, and could not withdraw his gaze from their ideal loveliness.

A little way from the house was a grove, in the midst of which a fountain threw upward its refreshing waters, that fell plashing into a marble basin, and then went gurgling musically along over shining pebbles.  How often, with his gentle partner by his side, had Markland lingered here, drinking in delight from every fair object by which they were surrounded!  Now he wandered amid its cool recesses, or sat by the fountain, without having even a faint picture of the scene mirrored in his thoughts.  It was true, as he had said, “Beauty had faded from the landscape; the air was no longer balmy with odours; the birds sang for his ears no more; he heard not, as of old, the wind-spirits whispering to each other in the tree-tops;” and he sighed deeply as a half-consciousness of the change disturbed his reverie.  A footfall reached his ears, and, looking up, he saw a neighbour approaching:  a man somewhat past the prime of life, who came toward him with a familiar smile, and, as he offered his hand, said pleasantly—­