I burned all the sketches I had made of
you, but one, and that I mislaid."
"I found it. I am glad you lost it, you naughty child."
"Did you? Well, I went through the winter and spring, and the awful
calamity of Henry's death, and the next fall and winter, and you wore
away, and although I might not see you, your absence made Newbury a
desert. And I felt it, when you came back. And when I got ready to go
I could not. I set the time, sent off my trunk, and lingered. I even
went one night past your father's house, only to see where you were,
and yet I lingered; I found flowers on my brother's grave, and thought
that some maiden loved him."
"When she loved you."
"That Wednesday night I would go, but couldn't."
"Tell me all that happened to you that night; it is a mystery to us
all; you did not even tell your mother."
"It is not much. I had abandoned my intention of going that night, and
was restless and uneasy, when George rushed in and told me you were
lost. He had learned all that was known, and told it very clearly. I
knew of the chopping, and where the path led up to it, and I thought
you would tarn back to the old road, and might enter the woods, on the
other side. Everything seemed wonderfully clear to me. My great love
kindled and aroused every faculty, and strung every nerve. I was
ready in a moment. George brought me two immense hickory torches, that
together would burn out a winter night; and with one of our sugar camp
tapers.
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