[figure description] Page 379.[end figure description]

When Gertrude went to her room after dinner, which she did
as soon as she had seen Emily comfortably established in the
drawing-room in conversation with Madam Gryseworth, she
found there a beautiful bouquet of the choicest flowers, which
the chamber-maid assured her she had been commissioned to
deliver to herself. She rightly imagined the source from whence
they came, divined at once the motives of kindness and sympathy
which had prompted the donor of so sweet and acceptable a gift,
and felt that, if she must accept pity from any quarter, Mr. Phillips
was one from whom she could more easily bear to receive it
than from almost any other.

Notwithstanding Netta's intimations, she did not for a moment
suspect that any other motives than those of kindness and compassion
had instigated the offering of the beautiful flowers. Nor
had she reason to do so; Mr. Philips' manner towards her was
rather fatherly than lover-like, and though she began to look
upon him as a valuable friend, that was the only light in which
she had ever thought of viewing him, or believed that he ever
regarded her. She placed the flowers in water, returned to
the parlor, and constrained herself to talk on indifferent subjects,
until she was happily relieved by the breaking up of their circle,
part to ride on horseback, part to take a drive, and the rest a
nap. Among these last was Gertrude, who availed herself of
her headache as an excuse to Emily for this unwonted indulgence.
But she could not sleep, and the day wore wearily on.

[figure description] Page 380.[end figure description]

Evening came at last, and with it an urgent invitation to Gertrude
to accompany Dr. Gryseworth, his daughters, and the
Petrancourts, to a concert to be given at the United States Hotel.
This she declined doing, and persisted in her refusal, in spite of
every endeavor to shake her resolution. She felt that it would
be impossible for her to undergo another such encounter as that
of the morning,—she should be sure to betray herself; and
now that the whole day had passed, and Willie had made no
attempt to see her, she felt that she would not, for the world,
put herself in his way, and run the risk of being discovered
and recognized by him in a crowded concert-room. No,—
she would wait; she should see him soon, at the latest, and
under the present circumstances she should not know how to
meet him; she would preserve her incognito a little longer.

So they all went without her, and many others from their hotel;
and the parlor, being half-deserted, was very quiet,—a great relief
to Gertrude's aching head and troubled mind. Later in the evening,
an elderly man, a clergyman, had been introduced to Emily,
and was talking with her; Madam Gryseworth and Dr. Jeremy
were entertaining each other, Mrs. Jeremy was nodding, and Gertrude,
believing that she should not be missed, was gliding out of
the room to go and sit a while by herself in the moonlight, when
she met Mr. Phillips in the hall.

“What are you here all alone for?” asked he. “Why didn't
you go to the concert?”

“I have a headache.”

“I saw you had, at dinner. Is it no better?”

“No. I believe not.”

“Come and walk with me on the piazza a little while. It will
do you good.”

She went; and he talked very entertainingly to her, told her
a great many amusing anecdotes, succeeded in making her smile,
and even laugh, and seemed very much pleased at having done
so. He related many amusing things he had seen and heard
since he had been staying at Saratoga in the character of a spectator,
and ended by asking her if she didn't think it was a heartless
show.

[figure description] Page 381.[end figure description]

The question took Gertrude by surprise. She asked his meaning.

“Don't you think there is something very ridiculous in so many
thousand people coming here to enjoy themselves?”

“I don't know,” answered Gertrude; “but it has not seemed
so to me. I think it's an excellent thing for those who do enjoy
themselves.”

“And how many do?”

“The greater part, I suppose.”

“Pshaw! no, they don't. More than half go away miserable,
and nearly all the rest dissatisfied.”

“Do you think so? Now, I thought the charm of the place
was seeing so many happy faces; they have nearly all looked
happy to me.”

“O, that's all on the surface, and, if you'll notice, those who
look happy one day are wretched enough the next. Yours was
one of the happy faces yesterday, but it is n't to-day, my poor
child.”

Then, perceiving that his remark caused the hand which rested
on his arm to tremble, while the eyes which had been attentively
raised to his suddenly fell, and hid themselves under their long
lashes, he continued. “However, we will trust soon to see it as
bright as ever. But they should not have brought you here.
Catskill Mountain was a fitter place for your lively imagination
and reflecting mind; a sensitive nature should not be exposed to
all the shafts of malice, envy and ill-will, it is sure to encounter
in one of these crowded resorts of selfish, base and cruel humanity.”

“O!” exclaimed Gertrude, at once comprehending that Mr.
Phillips suspected her to be smarting under some neglect, feeling
of wounded pride, or, perhaps, serious injury; “you speak
harshly; all are not selfish, all are not unkind.”

“Ah! you are young, and full of faith; trust whom you can,
and as long as you can. I trust no one.”

“No one! Is there none, then, in the whole world, whom you
love and confide in?”

[figure description] Page 382.[end figure description]

“Scarcely; certainly not more than one. Whom should I
trust?”

“The good, the pure, the truly great.”

“And who are they? How shall we distinguish them? I tell
you, my young friend, that in my experience—and it has been
rich, ay, very rich,”—and he set his teeth and spoke with bitterness,—
“the so-called good, the honorable, the upright man, has
proved but the varnished hypocrite, the highly-finished and polished
sinner. Yes,” continued he, his voice growing deeper, his manner
more excited as he spoke, “I can think of one, a respectable man,
one of your first men, yes, and a church-member, whose hardness,
injustice and cruelty, made my life what it has been—a desert, a
blank, or worse than that; and I can think of another, an old,
rough, intemperate sailor, over whose head a day never passed
that he did not take the name of his God in vain, who had, nevertheless,
at the bottom of his heart, a drop of such pure, unsullied
essence of virtue as could not be distilled from the souls of ten
thousand of your polished rogues. Which, then, shall I trust,—
the good, religious men, or the low, profane and abject ones?”

“Trust in goodness, wherever it be found,” answered Gertrude.
“But, O, trust all, rather than none.”

“Your world, your religion, draws a closer line.”

“Call it not my world, or my religion,” said Gertrude. “I
know of no such line. I know of no religion but that of the heart.
Christ died for us all alike, and, since few souls are so sunk in sin
that they do not retain some spark of virtue and truth, who shall
say in how many a light will at last spring up, by aid of which
they may find their way to God?”

“You are a good child, and full of hope and charity,” said Mr.
Phillips, pressing her arm closely to his side. “I will try and
have faith in you. But, see! our friends have returned from the
concert. Let us go and meet them.”

They had had a delightful time; Alboni had excelled herself,
and they were so sorry Gertrude did not go. “But perhaps,”
whispered Netta, “you have enjoyed yourself more at home.”
She half repented of the sly intimation, even before the words
had escaped her; for Gertrude, as she stood leaning unconcernedly

[figure description] Page 383.[end figure description]

upon Mr. Phillips' arm, looked so innocent of confusion or embarrassment,
that her very manner refuted Netta's suspicions.

“Miss Clinton was there,” continued Netta, “and looked beautifully.
She had a crowd of gentlemen about her; but did n't
you notice (and she turned to Mrs. Petrancourt) that one
seemed to meet with such marked favor that I wonder the rest
were not discouraged. I mean that tall, handsome young man,
who waited upon her into the hall, and went out soon after. She
devoted herself to him while he stayed.”

“It was the same one, was it not,” asked Ellen, “who afterwards,
towards the close of the concert, came in and stood leaning
against the wall for some minutes?”

“Yes,” answered Netta; “but he only waited for Alboni to
finish singing, and then, approaching Miss Clinton, leaned over and
whispered a word or two in her ear. After that she got up, left
her seat, and they both went off, rather to the mortification of the
other gentlemen. I noticed them pass by the window where we
sat, and walk across the grounds together.”

“Yes, just in the midst of that beautiful piece from Lucia,”
said Ellen. “How could they go away?”

“O, it is not strange, under the circumstances,” said Mr.
Petrancourt, “that Miss Clinton should prefer a walk with Mr.
Sullivan to the best music in the world.”

“Why?” asked Netta. “Is he very agreeable? Is he supposed
to be the favored one?”

“I should think there was no doubt of it,” answered Mr.
Petrancourt. “I believe it is generally thought to be an engagement.
He was in Paris with them during the spring, and they
all came home in the same steamer. Everybody knows it is the
wish of Mr. Clinton's heart, and Miss Isabel makes no secret of
her preference.”

“O, certainly,” interposed Mrs. Petrancourt; “it is an understood
thing. I heard it spoken of by two or three persons this
evening.”

What became of Gertrude, all this time? Could she, who for
six years had nursed the fond idea that to Willie she was and

[figure description] Page 384.[end figure description]

should still continue to be, all in all,—could she stand patiently
by, and hear him thus disposed of and given to another?

She did do it; not consciously, however, for her head swam
round, and she would have fallen but for the firm support of Mr.
Phillips, who held her arm so tightly that though he felt, the
rest could not see, how she trembled. Fortunately, too, none but
he thought of noticing her blanched face; and, as she stood somewhat
in the shadow, he alone, fully aware of her agitation, was
watching the strained and eager eyes, the parted and rigid lips,
the death-like pallor of her countenance.

Standing there with her heart beating like a heavy drum, and
almost believing herself in a horrid dream, she listened attentively,
heard and comprehended every word. She could not, however,
have spoken or moved for her life, and in an instant more accident
might have betrayed her excited and almost alarming condition.
But Mr. Phillips acted, spoke and moved for her, and she
was spared an exposure from which her delicate and sensitive
spirit would have shrunk indeed.

“Mr. Sullivan!” said he. “Ah! a fine fellow; I know him.
Miss Gertrude, I must tell you an anecdote about that young
man;” and, moving forward in the direction in which they had
been walking when they met the party from the concert, he made
as if they were still intending to prolong their promenade—a
promenade, however, in which he was the only walker, for Gertrude
was literally borne upon his arm, until the rest of the
company, who started at the same moment for the parlor, were
hid within its shelter, and he and his companion were left the sole
occupants of that portion of the piazza.

Until then he proceeded with his story, and went so far as to
relate that he and Mr. Sullivan were, a few years previous, travelling
together across an Arabian desert, when the latter proved
of signal service in saving him from a sudden attack by a wandering
tribe of Bedouins. By the time he had thus opened his narration,
he perceived that all danger of observation was passed, and hesitated
not to stop abruptly, and, without ceremony or apology, place
her in an arm-chair which stood conveniently near. “Sit here,”

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said he, “while I go and bring you a glass of water.” He then
wrapped her mantle tightly about her, and walked quickly away.

O, how Gertrude thanked him in her heart for thus considerately
leaving her, and giving her time to recover herself! It was
the most judicious thing he could have done, and the kindest.
He saw that she would not faint, and knew that left alone she
would soon rally her powers; perhaps be deceived by the idea
that even he was only half aware of her agitation, and wholly
ignorant of its cause.

He was gone some minutes, and when he returned she was perfectly
calm. She tasted the water, but he did not urge her to
drink it; he knew she did not require it. “I have kept you out
too long,” said he; “come, you had better go in now.”

She rose; he put her arm once more through his, guided her
feeble steps to a window which opened into hers and Emily's
room, and then, pausing a moment, said, in a meaning tone, at the
same time enforcing his words by the fixed glance of his piercing
eye, “You exhort me, Miss Gertrude, to have faith in everybody;
but I bid you, all inexperienced as you are, to beware lest
you believe too much. Where you have good foundation for confidence,
abide by it, if you can, firmly and bravely; but trust
nothing which you have not fairly tested, and, especially, rest assured
that the idle gossip of a place like this is utterly unworthy
of credit. Good-night.”

What an utter revulsion of feeling these words occasioned Gertrude!
They came to her with all the force of a prophecy, and
struck deep into her heart. Was there not wisdom in the stranger's
counsel? It was true, she thought, that he spoke merely
such simple axioms as a long experience of the world might dictate;
but how forcible, in her case, was their application! Had
not she, blindly yielding to her gloomy presentiments and fears,
been willing to lend a too ready ear to the whisperings of her own
jealous imagination, and a too credulous one to the idle reports of
others, while in reality she had proved a traitor to a more noble
trust? Who, during the many years she had known him, could
have proved himself more worthy of confidence than Willie?
Had he not, from his boyhood, been exemplary in every virtue,

[figure description] Page 386.[end figure description]

superior to every meanness and every form of vice? Had he
not in his early youth forsaken all that he held most dear, to toil
and labor beneath an Indian sun, that he might provide comforts
and luxuries for those whose support he eagerly took upon himself?
Had he not ever proved honorable, high-minded, sincere
and warm of heart? Above all, had he not been imbued from
his infancy with the highest and purest of Christian principles?

He had, indeed, been all this; and while Gertrude called it to
mind, and dwelt upon each phase of his consistent course, she
could not fail to remember, too, that Willie, whether as the generous,
kind-hearted boy, the adventurous, energetic youth, the
successful, respected, yet sorrow-tried man, had ever manifested
towards herself the same deep, ardent, enthusiastic attachment.
The love which he had shown for her in her childhood, and during
that period when, though still a child, she labored under the fullgrown
care and sorrow entailed upon her by Uncle True's sickness
and death, had seemed to grow and deepen in every successive day,
month and year, of their separation.

During their long and regular correspondence, no letter had
come from Willie that did not breathe the same spirit of devoted
affection for Gertrude,—an exclusive affection, in which there
could be no rivalship. All his thoughts of home and future
happy days were inseparably associated with her; and although
Mrs. Sullivan, with that instinctive reserve which was one of her
characteristics, never broached the subject to Gertrude, her whole
treatment of the latter sufficiently evinced that to her mind the
event of her future union with her son was a thing certain. The
hold declaration on Willie's part, conveyed in the letter received
by Gertrude soon after his mother's death, that his hopes, his
prayers, his labors, were now all for her, was not a more convincing
proof of the tender light in which he regarded her than all
their previous intercourse had been.

Should Gertrude, then, distrust him? Should she at once set
aside all past evidences of his worth, and give ready credence
to his prompt desertion of his early friend? No! she resolved
immediately to banish the unworthy thought; to cherish still the
firm belief that some explanation would shortly offer itself, which

[figure description] Page 387.[end figure description]

would yet satisfy her aching heart. Until then, she would trust
him; bravely and firmly too would she trust, for her confidence
was not without foundation.

As she made this heroic resolve, she lifted up her drooping
head and gazed out into the night. The moon had gone down,
and the sky was studded with stars, bright, clear and beautiful.
Gertrude loved a starry night. It invigorated and strengthened
her; and now, as she looked up, directly above her head stood
the star she so much loved,—the star which she had once fondly
fancied it was Uncle True's blessed privilege to light for her.
And, as in times long past these heavenly lights had spoken of
comfort to her soul, she seemed now to hear ringing in her ears
the familiar saying of the dear old man, “Cheer up, birdie, for
I'm of the 'pinion 't will all come out right at last.”

Gertrude continued through the short remainder of the evening
in an elevated frame of mind, which might almost be termed
joyful; and, thus sustained, she was able to go back to the
drawing-room for Emily, say good-night to her friends with a
cheerful voice, and before midnight she sought her pillow and
went quietly to sleep.

This composed state of mind, however, was partly the result of
strong excitement, and therefore could not last. The next morning
found her once more yielding to depressed spirits, and the
effort which she made to rise, dress and go to breakfast, was
almost mechanical. She excused herself from her customary
walk with the doctor, for to that she felt quite unequal. Her
first wish was to leave Saratoga; she longed to go home, to be in
a quiet place, where so many eyes would not be upon her; and
when the doctor came in with the letters which had arrived by
the early mail, she looked at them so eagerly that he observed it,
and said, smilingly, “None for you, Gerty; but one for Emily,
which is the next best thing, I suppose.”

To Gertrude this was the very best thing, for it was a long-expected
letter from Mr. Graham, which would probably mention
the time of his return from abroad, and consequently determine
the continuance of her own and Emily's visit at Saratoga.

To their astonishment, he had already arrived in New York,

[figure description] Page 388.[end figure description]

and desired them to join him there the following day. Gertrude
could hardly conceal her satisfaction, which was, however, if
noticed by her friends, merely attributed to the pleasure she
probably felt at the return of Mr. and Mrs. Graham; and Emily,
really delighted at the prospect of so soon meeting her father, to
whom she was fondly attached, was eager to commence preparations
for leaving.

They therefore retired to their own room, and Gertrude's time
until dinner was fully occupied in the business of packing.
Throughout the whole of the previous day she had been anxiously
hoping that Willie would make his appearance at their hotel;
now, on the contrary, she as earnestly dreaded such an event.
To meet him in so public a manner too as must here be inevitable,
would, under her present state of feelings, be insupportable; she
would infinitely prefer to be in Boston when he should first see
and recognize her; and, if she tormented herself yesterday with
the fear that he would not come, the dread that he might do so
was a still greater cause of distress to her to-day.

She was therefore relieved when, after dinner, Mr. Phillips
kindly proposed a drive to the lake. Dr. Gryseworth and one of
his daughters had, he assured Gertrude, agreed to take seats in a
carriage which he had provided, and he hoped she would not
refuse to occupy the fourth. As it was an hour when Emily
would not require her presence, and she would thus be sure to
avoid Willie, she gladly consented to the arrangement.

They had been at the lake nearly an hour. Dr. Gryseworth
and his daughter Ellen had been persuaded by a party whom
they met there to engage in bowling. Mr. Phillips and Gertrude
had declined taking part, but stood for some time looking on.
The day, however, being warm, and the air in the building
uncomfortably close, they had gone outside and seated themselves
on a bench at a little distance, to wait until the game was
concluded. As they sat thus, surveying the beautiful sheet of
water, now rosy red with the rays of the descending sun, a couple
approached and took up a position near them. Mr. Phillips was
quite screened from their observation by the trunk of a huge
tree, and Gertrude sufficiently so to be unnoticed, though the

[figure description] Page 389.[end figure description]

sudden paleness which overspread her face as they drew near
was so marked as clearly to indicate that she saw and recognized
William Sullivan and Isabel Clinton. The words which they
spoke, also, fell distinctly upon her ear.

“Shall I, then, be so much missed?” asked Isabel, looking
earnestly in the face of her companion, who, with a serious air,
was gazing out upon the water.

“Missed!” replied he, turning towards her, and speaking in a
slightly-reproachful voice. “How can it be otherwise? Who
can supply your place?”

“But it will be only two days.”

“A short time, under ordinary circumstances,” said Willie,
“but an eternity—” He here checked himself, and made a
sudden motion to proceed on their walk.

Isabel followed him, saying, “But you will wait here until my
return?”

He again turned to reply, and this time the reproachful look
which overspread his features was visible to Gertrude, as he said,
with great earnestness, “Certainly; can you doubt it?”

The strange, fixed, unnatural expression which took possession
of Gertrude's countenance as she listened to this conversation, to
her so deeply fraught with meaning, was fearful to witness.

“Gertrude!” exclaimed Mr. Phillips, after watching her for
a moment. “Gertrude, for heaven's sake do not look so! Speak,
Gertrude! What is the matter?”

But she did not turn her eyes, did not move a feature of that
stony face; she evidently did not hear him. He took her hand.
It was cold as marble. His face now wore an appearance of
distress almost equal to her own;—great tears rushed to his
eyesm, and rolled down his cheeks. Once he stretched forth his
arms, as if he would gladly clasp her to his bosom and soothe
her like a little child, but with evident effort he repressed the
emotion. “Gertrude,” said he, at length, leaning forward and
fixing his eyes full upon hers, “what have these people done to
you? Why do you care for them? If that young man has injured
you,—the rascal!—he shall answer for it;” and he sprung to
his feet.

[figure description] Page 390.[end figure description]

The words and the action brought Gertrude to herself. “No,
no!” said she, “he is not that. I am better now. Do not
speak of it; don't tell,” and she looked anxiously in the direction
of the bowling-alley. “I am a great deal better.” And, to his
astonishment,—for the fearful, rigid look upon her face had
frightened him,—she rose with perfect composure, and proposed
going home.

He accompanied her silently, and before they were half-way
up the hill where they had left the carriage, they were overtaken
by the rest of their party, and, in a few moments, were
driving towards Saratoga.

During the whole drive and the evening which followed Gertrude
preserved this same rigid, unnatural composure. Once or
twice before they reached the hotel Dr. Gryseworth asked her
if she felt ill, and Mr. Phillips turned many an anxious glance
towards her. The very tones of her voice were constrained,—so
much so that Emily, on her reaching the house, inquired, at once,
“What is the matter, my dear child?”

But she declared herself quite well, and went through all the
duties and proprieties of the evening, bidding farewell to many
of her friends, and when she parted from the Gryseworths
arranging to see them again in the morning.

To the careless eye, Emily was the more troubled of the two;
for Emily could not be deceived, and reflected back, in her whole
demeanor, the better-concealed sufferings of Gertrude. Gertrude
neither knew at the time, nor could afterwards recall, one-half of
the occurrences of that evening. She never could understand
what it was that sustained her, and enabled her, half unconsciously,
to perform her part in them. How she so successfully
concealed the misery she was enduring she never could comprehend
or explain. She remembered it only as if it had all
been a dream.

Not until the still hours of the night, when Emily appeared
to be soundly sleeping by her side, did she venture for an instant
to loosen the iron bands of restraint which she had imposed upon
herself; but then, the barrier removed, the pent-up torrent of
her grief burst forth without check or hindrance. She rose from

[figure description] Page 391.[end figure description]

her bed, and, burying her face in the cushions of a low couch
which stood near the window, gave herself up to blessed tears,
every drop of which was a relief to her aching soul. Since her
early childhood she had never indulged so long and unrestrained
a fit of weeping; and, the heaving of her chest, and the deep
sobs she uttered, proved the depth of her agony. All other sorrows
had found her in a great degree fortified and prepared,
armed with religious trust and encouraged by a holy hope; but
beneath this sudden and unlooked-for blow she bent, staggered
and shrunk, as the sapling of a summer's growth heaves and
trembles beneath the wintry blast.

That Willie was faithless to his first love she could not now
feel a shadow of doubt; and with this conviction she realized
that the prop and stay of her life had fallen. Uncle True and
Mrs. Sullivan were both her benefactors, and Emily was still a
dear and steadfast friend; but all of these had been more or less
dependent upon Gertrude, and, although she could ever repose in
the assurance of their love, two had long before they passed
away come to lean wholly upon her youthful arm, and the other,
the last one left, not only trusted to her to guide her uncertain
steps, but those steps were evidently now tending downwards to
the grave.

Upon whom, then, should Gertrude lean? To whom should she
look as the staff of her young and inexperienced life? To whom
could she, with confidence, turn for counsel, protection, support
and love? To whom but Willie? And Willie had given his
heart to another,—and Gertrude would soon be left alone!

No wonder, then, that she wept as the broken-hearted weep;
wept until the fountain of her tears was dry, and she felt herself
sick, faint and exhausted. And now she rose, approached the
window, flung back from her forehead the heavy folds of her long
hair, leaned out, and from the breath of the cool night-breeze
drank in a refreshing influence. Her soul grew calmer, as, with
her eyes fixed upon the bright lights which shone so sweetly and
calmly down, she seemed to commune with holy things. Once
more they seemed to compassionate her, and, as in the days of
her lonely childhood, to whisper, “Gerty!—Gerty!—poor little
Gerty!”

[figure description] Page 392.[end figure description]

Softened and touched by their pitying glance, she gradually
sunk upon her knees; her uplifted face, her clasped hands, the
sweet expression of resignation now gradually creeping over her
countenance, all gave evidence that, as on the occasion of her
first silent prayer to the then unknown God, her now enlightened
soul was holding deep communion with its Maker, and once more
her spirit was uttering the simple words, “Here am I, Lord!”

O, blessed religion which can sustain the heart in such an hour
as this! O, blessed faith and trust, which, when earthly support
fails us, and our strongest earthly stay proves but a rope of sand,
lifts the soul above all other need, and clasps it to the bosom of its
God!

And now a gentle hand is laid upon her head. She turns and
sees Emily, whom she had believed to be asleep, but from whom
anxiety had effectually banished slumber, and who, with fears
redoubled by the sobs which Gertrude could not wholly repress,
is standing by her side.

“Gertrude,” said she, in a grieved tone, “are you in trouble,
and did you seek to hide it from me? Do not turn from me,
Gertrude!” and, throwing her arms around her, she drew her head
close to her bosom, and whispered, “Tell me all, my darling!
What is the matter with my poor child?”

And Gertrude unburdened her heart to Emily, disclosing to
her attentive car the confession of the only secret she had ever
kept from her; and Emily wept as she listened, and when Gertrude
had finished she pressed her again and again to her heart,
exclaiming, as she did so, with an excitement of tone and manner
which Gertrude had never before witnessed in the usually clam
and placid blind girl, “Strange, strange, that you, too, should
be thus doomed! O, Gertrude, my darling, we may well weep
together; but still, believe me, your sorrow is far less bitter than
mine!”

And then, in the darkness of that midnight hour, was Gertrude's
confidence rewarded by the revelation of that tale of grief and
woe which twenty years before had blighted Emily's youth, and
which, notwithstanding the flight of time, was still vivid to her
recollection, casting over her life a dark shadow, of which her
blindness was but a single feature.

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