And yet--what is there in life more sweet than to be consoled
and comforted, and to have the true sympathy of some one, even a little
near to us, when we ourselves are suffering. The people we do not want
shower cards of condolence on us, and carriage-loads of flowers on the
poor dead thing; the ones who could be of some help to the tortured soul
are afraid to speak; the very delicacy of kind-heartedness in them,
which makes us wish they would come, makes them stay away.
I hope Isaacs will not send for me, poor fellow.
If he does, what shall I say? God help me.
* * * * *
CHAPTER XIV.
The hours came and went, and though worn out with the exertions of the
past days, and with the emotions of the morning, I lay in my rooms,
unable to sleep even for a moment. I went down once or twice to Isaacs'
rooms to know whether he had returned, but he had not, nor had any one
heard from him. At last the evening shadows crept stealthily up,
darkening first one room, then another, until there was not light enough
to read by. Then I dropped my book and went out to breathe the cold air
on the verandah. Wearily the hours went by, and still there was no sign
of my friend.
Towards eleven o'clock the moon, now waning, once more rose above the
hills and shed her light across the lawn, splendid still, but with the
first tinge of melancholy that clouds her departing glory.
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