Sensible of a pressing emergency.  Miss Heywood, with a beating heart, regained the cottage, in which so many blissful hours had been passed within the last two years, undisturbed by a care for the future, while the young officer joining his men, left one to take care of the arms of the party, and with the remainder hastened to the house making as little noise as possible, in order not to disturb the invalid.  Having chosen such articles of furniture as he knew Mrs. Elmsley was most deficient in, and among these a couch and a couple of easy-chairs (which latter indeed were the work of his own hands), they were conveyed to the scow in two trips, and then followed three or four trunks into which had been thrown, without regard to order, such wearing apparel, and necessaries of the toilet as the short period allowed for preparation had permitted the agitated girl to put together.  The most delicate part of the burden, however, yet remained to be removed, and that was the invalid herself.  Desiring his men to remain without, the youth, whose long and close intimacy with the family rendered such a step by no means objectionable, entered the apartment of Mrs. Heywood, who had already been prepared by her daughter for the removal, and with the assistance of Catherine raised the bed on which she lay, and transferred it to a litter brought for the occasion.  This they carefully bore through the suite of small and intervening rooms to the front, where two of the men relieved them, Catherine walking at the side, and unnecessarily enjoining caution at every step.

“This is, indeed, an unexpected change, Ronayne,” said Miss Heywood, sadly, “but this morning, and I was so happy, and now!  These poor flowers, too (for after having fastened the windows and doors of the house, they were now directing their course towards the mound), that parterre which cost us so much labor, yes, such sweet labor, must all be left to be destroyed by the hand of some ruthless savage.  Yet, what do I say,” she pursued, in a tone of deep sorrow, “I lament the flowers; yes, Ronayne, because they have thriven under your care, and yet, I forget that my father perhaps no longer lives; that my beloved mother’s death may be the early consequence of this removal.  Yet think me not selfish.  Think me not ungrateful.  Come what may, you will yet be left to me.  No, Harry,” and she looked up to him tearfully, “I shall never be utterly destitute, while you remain.”

“Bless you, thrice bless you for these sweet avowals of your confidence,” exclaimed the youth, suddenly dropping her arm, and straining her passionately to his heart.  “Yes, Maria, I shall yet remain to love, to cherish, to make you forget every other tie in that of husband—­to blend every relationship in that of one.”

“Nay, Ronayne,” she quickly returned, while the color mounted vividly to her cheek, under the earnest ardor of his gaze, “I would not now unsay what I have said, and yet I did not intend that my words should exactly bear that interpretation—­nor is this a moment—­”