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Later in the evening, when Gertrude, having resigned her little
charge to the nurse who came to seek her, had again joined
her party, the attention of every one assembled in the drawing-room
was attracted by the entrance of a beautiful and showilydressed
young lady, attended by two or three gentlemen. After
glancing round the room for the person whom she came to seek,
she advanced towards Mrs. Petrancourt, who, on her part, rose to
receive her young visitor. Unexpected as the meeting was to
Gertrude, she at once recognized Isabel Clinton, who, however,
passed both her and Emily without observing them, and, there
being no vacant chair near at hand, seated herself with Mrs.
Petrancourt on a couch a little further up the room, and entered
into earnest and familiar conversation; nor did she change her
position or look in the direction of Dr. Jeremy's party, until just
as she was taking her leave. She would have passed them then
without noticing their presence, but accidentally hearing Dr. Gryseworth
address Miss Flint by name, she half turned, caught Gertrude's
eye, spoke a careless “How do you do,” with that sort of
indifference with which one salutes a very slight acquaintance, cast
a look back at Emily, surveyed with an impertinent air of curiosity
the rest of the circle to which they belonged, and, without
stopping to exchange words or inquiries, walked off whispering to
her companions some satirical comments both upon the place and
the company.

“O, what a beauty!” exclaimed Netta to Mrs. Petrancourt.
“Who is she?”

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Mrs. Petrancourt related what she knew of Miss Clinton; told
how she had travelled with her in Switzerland, and met her
afterwards in Paris, where she was universally admired; then,
turning to Gertrude, she remarked, “You are acquainted with
her, I see, Miss Flint.”

Gertrude replied that she knew her before she went abroad, but
had seen nothing of her since her return.

“She has but just arrived,” said Mrs. Petrancourt; “she came
with her father in the last steamer, and has been in Saratoga but
a day or two. She is making a great sensation at the United
States, I hear, and has troops of beaux.”

“Most of whom are probably aware,” remarked Mr. Petrancourt,
“that she will have plenty of money one of these days.”

Emily's attention was by this time attracted. She had been
conversing with Ellen Gryseworth, but now turned to ask Gertrude
if they were speaking of Isabel Clinton.

“Yes,” said Dr. Jeremy, taking upon himself to reply, “and
if she were not the rudest girl in the world, my dear, you would
not have remained so long in ignorance of her having been here.”

Emily forbore to make any comment. It did not surprise her
to hear that the Clintons had returned home, as they had separated
from the Grahams soon after the latter went abroad, and she
had since heard nothing of their movements; nor was she astonished
at any degree of incivility from one who sometimes seemed
ignorant of the most common rules of politeness. Gertrude was
silent also; but she burned inwardly, as she always did, at any
slights being offered to the gentle Emily.

Gertrude and Dr. Jeremy were always among the earliest
morning visitors at the spring. The doctor enjoyed drinking the
water at this hour; and, as Gertrude was an early riser and fond
of walking before breakfast, he made it a point that she should
accompany him, partake of the beverage of which he was himself
so found, and afterwards join him in brisk pedestrian exercise
until near the hour of the morning meal, which was as early as
Mrs. Jeremy or Emily cared to have their slumbers disturbed.

On the morning succeeding the evening of which we have been
speaking they had as usual presented themselves at the spring.

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Gertrude had gratified the doctor, and made a martyr of herself,
by imbibing a tumbler-full of a water which she found very unpalatable;
and he having quaffed his seventh glass, they had
both proceeded some distance on one more walk around the
grounds, when he suddenly missed his cane, and, believing that
he had left it at the spring, declared his intention to return and
look for it.

Gertrude would have gone back also, but, as there might be
some difficulty and delay in recovering it, he insisted upon her
continuing her walk in the direction of the circular railway,
promising to come round the other way and meet her. She had
proceeded some little distance, and was walking thoughtfully
along, when, at an abrupt winding in the path, she observed a
couple approaching her,—a young lady leaning on the arm of a
gentleman. A straw hat partly concealed the face of the latter,
but in the former she at once recognized Belle Clinton. It was
equally evident, too, that Belle saw Gertrude, and knew her, but
did not mean to acknowledge her acquaintance; for, after the
first glance, she kept her eyes obstinately fixed either upon her
companion or the ground. This conduct did not disturb Gertrude
in the least; Belle could not feel more indifferent about
the acquaintance than she did; but, being thus saved the necessity
of awaiting and returning any salutation from that quarter,
she naturally bestowed her passing glance upon the gentleman
who accompanied Miss Clinton. He looked up at the same instant,
fixed his full gray eyes upon her, with merely that careless
look, however, with which one stranger regards another, then,
turning as carelessly away, made some slight remark to his companion.

They pass on. They have gone some steps,—but Gertrude
stands fixed to the spot. She feels a great throbbing at her heart.
She knows that look, that voice, as well as if she had seen and
heard them yesterday. Could Gertrude forget Willie Sullivan?

But he has forgotten her. Shall she run after him, and stop
him, and catch both his hands in hers, and compel him to see, and
know, and speak to her? She started one step forward in the
direction he had taken, then suddenly paused and hesitated. A

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crowd of emotions choked, blinded, suffocated her, and while she
wrestled with them and they with her, he turned the corner and
passed out of sight. She covered her face with her hands (always
her first impulse in moments of distress), and leaned against
a tree.

It was Willie. There was no doubt of that; but not her
Willie,—the boy Willie. It was true, time had added but little
to his height or breadth of figure, for he was a well-grown youth
when he went away. But six years of Eastern life, including no
small amount of travel, care, exposure and suffering, had done
the work that twice that time would ordinarily have accomplished.

The fresh complexion of the boy had given place to the paler,
beard-darkened and somewhat sun-browned tints that mark a
ripened manhood; the joyous eye had a deeper cast of thought,
the elastic step a more firm and measured tread; while the beaming,
sunny expression of countenance had given place to a certain
grave and composed look, which marked his features when in
repose.

The winning attractiveness of the boy, however, had but given
place to equal, if not superior qualities in the man, who was still
eminently handsome, and gifted with that inborn and natural
grace and ease of deportment which win universal remark and
commendation. The broad, open forehead, the lines of mild but
firm decision about the mouth, the frank, fearless manner, were as
marked as ever, and were alone sufficient to betray his identity to
one upon whose memory these, and all his other characteristics,
were indelibly stamped; and Gertrude needed not the sound of
his well-known voice, though that, too, at the same moment fell
upon her ear, to proclaim at once to her beating heart that Willie
Sullivan had met her face to face, had passed on, and that she
was left alone, unrecognized, unknown, and, to all appearance,
unthought of and uncared for!

For a time, this bitter thought, “He does not know me,” was
alone present to her mind; it filled and engrossed her entire imagination,
and sent a thrill of surprise and agony through her
whole frame. She did not stop to reflect upon the fact that she

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was but a child when she parted from him, and that the change in
her appearance must be immense. Far less did it occur to her
to congratulate herself upon a transformation every shade of
which had been to her a proportionate improvement and advantage.
The one painful idea, that she was forgotten and lost, as
it were, to the dear friend of her childhood, obliterated every
other recollection. Had they both been children, as in the
earlier days of their brother and sister hood, it would have been
easy, and but natural, to dart forward, overtake, and claim him.
But time, in the changes it had wrought, had built up a huge
barrier between them. Gertrude was a woman now, with all a
woman's pride; and delicacy and maiden modesty deterred her
from the course which impulse and old affection prompted.
Other feelings, too, soon crowded into her mind, in confused and
mingled array. Why was Willie here, and with Isabel Clinton
leaning on his arm? How came he on this side the ocean? and
how happened it that he had not immediately sought herself, the
earliest, and, as she had supposed, almost the only friend he had
left to welcome him back to his native land? Why had he not
written and warned her of his coming? How should she account
for his strange silence, and the still stranger circumstance of his
hurrying at once to the haunts of fashion, without once visiting
the city of his birth, and the sister of his adoption?

Question after question, and doubt following doubt, rushed into
her mind so confusedly, that she could not reflect, could not come
to any conclusion in the matter. She could only feel and weep;
and, giving way to her overpowering emotion, she burst into a
flood of tears.

Poor child! It was so different a meeting from what she
had imagined and expected! For the six years that she had been
growing into womanhood, it had been the dream of her waking
hours, and had come as a beautiful though transient reality to
her happy sleep. He could hardly have presented himself at
any hour of the day or night, scarcely in any disguise, that would
not have been foreseen and anticipated. He could have used no
form of greeting that had not already rung in the ears of her
fancy; he could bestow upon her no look that would not be

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familiar. What Willie would say when he first saw her, what
he would do to express his delight, the questions he would ask,
the exclamations he would utter and the corresponding replies
on her part, the happiness of them both (lately sobered and subdued
to her imagination by the thought of the dear departed ones
they had both loved so well),—all this had been rehearsed by
Gertrude again and again, in every new instance taking some
new form, or varied by some additional circumstance.

But, among all her visions, there had been none which in the
least approached the reality of this painful experience that had
suddenly plunged her into disappointment and sorrow. Her darkest
dreams had never pictured a meeting so chilling; her most
fearful forebodings (and she had of late had many) had never
prefigured anything so heart-rending as this seemingly total
annihilation of all the sweet and cherished relations that had
subsisted between herself and the long-absent and exiled wanderer.

No wonder, then, that she forgot the place, the time, everything
but her own overwhelming grief; and that, as she stood
leaning against the old tree, her chest heaved with sobs too deep
for utterance, and great tears trickled from her eyes, and between
the little taper fingers that vainly sought to hide her disturbed
countenance.

She was startled from her position by the sound of an approaching
footstep. Hastily starting forward, without looking in the
direction from which it came, and throwing a lace veil (which,
as the day was warm, was the only protection she wore upon her
head) in such a manner as to hide her face, she wiped away her
fast-flowing tears, and hastened on, to avoid being overtaken and
observed by any of the numerous strangers who frequented the
grounds at this hour.

Half-blinded, however, by the thick folds of the veil, and her
sight rendered still dimmer by the tears which continued to fill
her eyes, she was scarcely conscious of the unsteady course she
was pursuing, when suddenly a loud, whizzing noise, close to
her ears, frightened and confused her so that she knew not which
way to turn; nor had she time to take a single step; for, at the

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same instant, an arm was suddenly flung round her waist, she
was focibly lifted from her feet with as much ease and lightness
as if she had been a little child, and, before she was conscious
what was taking place, found herself detained and supported by
the same strong arm, while just in front of her a little hand-car
containing two persons was whirling by at full speed. One step
more, and she would have reached the track of the miniature railway,
and been exposed to serious, perhaps fatal injury, from the
rapidly-moving vehicle. Flinging back her veil, she at once perceived
her fortunate escape; and, being at the same moment
released from the firm grasp of her rescuer, she turned upon
him a half-confused, half-grateful face, whose disturbed expression
was much enhanced by her previous excitement and tears.

Mr. Phillips—for it was he—looked upon her in the most tender
and pitying manner. “Poor child!” said he, soothingly, at the
same time drawing her arm through his, “you were very much
frightened. Here, sit down upon this bench;” and he would
have drawn her towards a seat, but she shook her head, and signified
by a movement her wish to proceed towards the hotel.
She could not speak; the kindness of his look and voice only
served to increase her trouble, and rob her of the power to articulate.

So he walked on in perfect silence, supporting her, however,
with the greatest care, and bestowing upon her many an anxious
glance. At last, making a great effort to recover her calmness,
she partially succeeded,—so much so that he ventured to speak
again, and asked, “Did I frighten you?”

“You?” replied she, in a low, and somewhat unsteady voice.
“O, no! you are very kind.”

“I am sorry you are so disturbed,” said he; “those little cars
are troublesome things; I wish they'd pat a stop to them.”

“The car?” said Gertrude, in an absent way. “O, yes, I
forgot.”

“You are a little nervous, I fear; can't you get Dr. Jeremy
to prescribe for you?”

“The doctor! He went back for his cane, I believe.”

Mr. Phillips saw that she was bewildered, obtuse he knew she

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never was; for, within the last few days, his acquaintance with
her had grown and ripened by frequent intercourse. He forbore
any attempt at conversation, and they continued their walk to
the hotel without another word. Just before leaving her, however,
he said, in a tone of the deepest interest, as he held her
hand for a moment at parting, “Can I do anything for you?
Can I help you?”

Gertrude looked up at him. She saw at once, from his countenance,
that he understood and realized that she was unhappy,
not nervous. Her eyes thanked him as they again glistened
behind a shower of tears. “No, no,” gasped she, “but you are
very good;” and she hastened into the house, leaving him standing
for more than a minute in the spot where she had left him,
gazing at the door by which she had disappeared, as if she were
still in sight, and he were watching her.

Gertrude's first thought, after parting from Mr. Phillips and
gaining the shelter of the hotel, was, how she might best conceal
from all her friends, and especially from Miss Graham, any
knowledge of the load of grief she was sustaining. That she
would receive sympathy and comfort from Emily there could
be no doubt; but, in proportion as she loved and respected her
benefactress, did she shrink, with jealous sensitiveness, from any
disclosure which was calculated to lessen Willie Sullivan in the
estimation of one in whose opinion she was anxious that he
should sustain the high place to which her own praises had
exalted him.

The chief knowledge that Emily had of Willie was derived
from Gertrude, and with a mingled feeling of tenderness for him
and pride on her own account did the latter dread to disclose the
fact that he had returned after so many years of absence, that
she had met him in the public walks of Saratoga, and that he
had passed her carelessly by.

The possibility naturally presented itself to her mind that he
had indeed visited Boston, sought her, and, learning where she
might be found, had come hither purposely to see her; nor, on
calm reflection, did this supposition seem contradicted by his
failing, on a mere casual glance, to recognize her; for she could

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not be ignorant or insensible of the vast change which had taken
place both in her face and figure. But the ray of hope which
this thought called up was quickly dissipated by the recollection
of a letter received the previous evening from Mrs. Ellis (now
acting as housekeeper at Dr. Jeremy's), which would certainly
have mentioned the arrival of so important a visitor. There was,
however, the still further possibility that this arrival might have
taken place since the date of Mrs. Ellis' concise epistle, and that
Willie might have but just reached his destination, and not yet
had time to discover her temporary place of abode. Though the
leisurely manner in which he was escorting Miss Clinton on her
morning walk seemed to contradict the supposition, Gertrude,
clinging fondly to this frail hope, and believing that the rest of
the day would not pass without his presenting himself at the
hotel, determined to concentrate all her energies in the effort to
maintain her usual composure, at least until her fears should
become certainties.

It was very hard for her to appear as usual, and clude the
vigilance of the affectionate and careful Emily, who, always
deeply conscious of her responsibility towards her young charge,
and fearful lest, owing to her blindness, she might often be an
insufficient protection to one of so ardent and excitable a temperament,
was keenly alive to every sensation and emotion experienced
by Gertrude, especially to any fluctuation in her usually
cheerful spirits.

And Gertrude's spirits, even when she had armed herself with
confidence and hope by the encouraging thought that Willie
would yet prove faithful to his old friendship, could not but be
sorely depressed by the consciousness now forced upon her that
he could no longer be to her as he had once been; that they could
never meet on the same footing on which they had parted; that
he was a man of the world now, with new relations, new cares,
new interests; and that she had been deceiving herself, and laboring
under a fond delusion, in cherishing the belief that in their
case the laws of nature would be suspended, and time have no
power to alter or modify the nature and extent of their mutual
affection. There was something in the very circumstance of her

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first meeting him in company with Isabel Clinton which tended
to impress her with this conviction. Isabel, of all people, one
so essentially worldly, and with whom she had so little sympathy
or congeniality! True, she was the daughter of Willie's early
and generous employer, now the senior partner in the mercantile
house to which he belonged, and would not only be likely to form
his acquaintance, but would have an undoubted claim to every
polite attention he might have it in his power to pay her; but
still Gertrude could not but feel a greater sense of estrangement,
a chilling presentiment of sorrow, from seeing him thus
familiarly associated with one who had invariably treated her
with scorn and incivility.

There was but one thing for her to do, however; to call up all
her self-command, bring pride even to her aid, and endeavor, in
any event, to behave with serenity and composure. The very
fear that one keen and searching pair of eyes had already penetrated
her secret so far as to discover that she was afflicted in
some form or other served to put her still more upon her guard;
and she therefore compelled herself to enter the room where
Emily was awaiting her, bid her a cheerful “good-morning,” and
assist, as usual, in the completion of her toilet. Her face still
bore indications of recent tears; but that Emily could not see,
and by breakfast-time even they were effectually removed.

Now, again, new trials awaited her; for Dr. Jeremy, according
to his promise, had, after recovering the missing cane, gone
to meet her in the direction agreed upon, and, finding her false
to her appointment, and nowhere to be found among the grounds,
was full of inquiries as to the path she had taken, and her
reasons for giving him the slip.

Now, for the first time, she recollected the doctor's promise to
rejoin her, and the stipulation that she should proceed in the
path she was then following; but, having, until these questions
were put to her, quite forgotten the old gentleman, she was
unprepared for a reply, blushed, and became very much confused.
The truth was that when Gertrude heard Mr. Phillips approaching
in the direction she should have taken, she, in her eagerness
to avoid meeting any one, took the contrary path to that she had

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been pursuing, and, after he joined her, retraced her steps to the
hotel in the same way she had come, consequently eluding the
search of the doctor.

But, before she could plead any excuse, Netta Gryseworth
came running up, evidently full of pleasantry and fun, and, leaning
over Gertrude's shoulder, said, in a whisper loud enough to
be heard by all the little circle, who were being delayed on their
way to breakfast by the doctor's demand for an explanation,
“Gertrude, my dear, such affecting partings ought to be private;
I wonder you allow them to take place directly at the door-step.”

This remark did not lessen Gertrude's discomfiture, which
became extreme on Dr. Jeremy's catching Netta by the arm, as
she was about to run off, and insisting upon knowing her meaning,
declaring that he already had suspicions of Gertrude, and
wanted to know who she had been walking with.

“O, a certain tall young beau of hers, who stood gazing after
her when she left him, until I began to fear the cruel creature
had turned him into stone. What did you do to the poor man,
Gertrude?”

“Nothing,” replied Gertrude. “He saved me from being
thrown down by the little rail-car, and afterwards walked home
with me.”

Gertrude answered seriously; she could have laughed and
joked with Netta at any other time, but now her heart was too
heavy. The doctor did not perceive her growing agitation, however,
and pushed the matter still further.

“Quite romantic! imminent danger! providential rescue!
tête-à-tête walk home, carefully avoiding the old doctor, who
might prove an interruption!—I understand!”

Poor Gertrude, blushing scarlet and pitiably distressed, tried to
offer some explanation, and stammered out, with a faltering voice,
that she did not notice—she didn't remember.

Ellen Gryseworth gave her a scrutinizing glance,—Emily, an
anxious one,—and Netta, half-pitying half-enjoying her confusion,
dragged her off towards the breakfast-hall, saying, “Never
mind, Gertrude; it's no such dreadful thing, after all.”

She made a pretence of eating breakfast, but could not conceal

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her want of appetite, and was glad, when Emily had finished her
light repast, to accompany her to their own room, where, after
relating circumstantially her escape from accident, and Mr. Phillips'
agency in that escape, she was permitted by her apparently
satisfied hearer to sit down quietly and read aloud to her in a
book lent them by that gentleman, to whom, however, owing to
unfriendly fortune, no opportunity had ever yet occurred of
introducing Emily.

The whole morning passed away, and nothing was heard from
Willie. Every time a servant passed through the entry, Gertrude
was on the tiptoe of expectation; and on occasion of a tap
at the doer, such as occurred several times before dinner, she
trembled so that she could hardly lift the latch. There was no
summons to the parlor, however, and by noon the feverish excitement
of alternate expectation and disappointment had brought a
deep flush into her face, and she experienced, what was very
unusual, symptoms of a severe headache. Conscious, however,
of the wrong construction which would be sure to be put upon
her conduct, if, upon any plea whatever, she on this day absented
herself from the dinner-table, she made the effort to dress with
as much care as usual; and, as she passed up the hall to her seat,
it was not strange that, though suffering herself, the rich glow
that mantled her cheeks, and the brilliancy which excitement had
given to her dark eyes, attracted the notice of others beside Mr.
Phillips, who, seated at some distance, continued, during the
short time that he remained at the table, to observe her attentively.

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