Glendenning retired to bed at a late hour, for the night
was so deliciously bright and tranquil he could scarcely tear
himself away, and the little happy circle, remembering they
might, perhaps, never spend another evening together, were
but too ready to postpone the hour of separation. The conversation
took a confidential and almost a romantic and tender
tone, sometimes interrupted by a remark of Mr. Lennox,
which set every one laughing, or by a glee, which the
young ladies were very fond of joining in with Frank.
Harry coldly abstained from taking a part, but listened to

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the sweet voice of Fanny as it sometimes trembled on
words which might seem to bear a reference to her own
position and feelings. Emmerson, whose presence, somehow
or other, threw a chill over the group, had withdrawn
early to a book, and then to bed. This last evening of Glendenning
with the Lennoxes often afterward recurred to his
memory.

The next evening he was to start at nine by the passing
Albany boat.

The regret felt by all at the breaking up of their agreeable
party was concealed by none, and when they came out
upon the walk before the door to pay the parting salutations,
Mrs. Elton talking the whole time to each individual
in his and her turn, her eyes swimming in tears—Mr. Lennox
laughing and joking to hide his softened feelings—
Frank embracing affectionately his departing friend, and
even Miss Elton and Mary protesting that they should read
no more poetry, have no more music, make no more excursions
for a month, Glendenning began to feel that he had
formed attachments of a serious nature, and some, or at
least one, which, had time and tide allowed, might have
become more serious still. Mary had excited in him a certain
odd, warm, cold, curious sentiment, which a more philosophical
stranger would have identified as an embryo passion.
The gay young lady herself—we must do her justice
on this extremely delicate point—had not dreamed of any
other feelings towards the warm-hearted, generous traveller
than a sincere and friendly interest.

“There, there comes the boat,” said Miss Elton; “I see
the sparks over the trees, on that broad part of the river
Don't you see?”

“Yes, too well,” said Glendenning.

“It will be here exactly in twenty minutes.”

“And have all my joys, then, shrunk to this little measure?”

“Now, you don't believe what a monstrous tender-hearted
being this travelling companion of mine is,” said White.
“He won't be worth anything for a month.”

“God bless you, God bless you,” broke from every lip,
as the general shaking of hands was renewed and renewed
again, till everybody's heart was beating double quick time
in their bosom. “Write us often, I'll always answer,” and
Come down again next summer,” and “Don't forget to

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read Halleck, and Irving, and Bryant,” and “We shall see
the boat as you come under this point,” and “I'll wave a
handkerchief to you,” and “I'll be on the upper deck, and
wave mine,” and “We shall drink your health to-morrow
precisely at four, and then think of us,” and “There's the
bell, don't forget us!” These and various other phrases
from all present were interrupted by,

“We shall be too late, sir,” in the quiet voice of the
coachman, as the bell of the steamboat rose in impatient,
quick peals through the trees from the river below.

“Good-by, and God bless you.”

And then some very hearty shaking of hands again, and
White leaped into the carriage with Frank and Lennox.

“And now really good-by,” said Glendenning, once more
shaking each of the ladies by the hand. “Kind, dear Mrs.
Elton, I shall never forget you. Miss Elton, you have forgiven
me like an angel, and I shall always recollect you as
one. Mrs. Lennox, I could call you my mother,” and he
pressed her hand warmly to his lips. “Miss Lennox, I
should be even more unhappy than I am if I didn't think
we should one day—”

“Come, d—n it,” said Lennox, “if you don't want to be
left behind, young man—”

He sprang into the carriage.

“Adieu. God bless you, and happiness be yours; and
mind,” said Mrs. Lennox—“remember! you have made a
promise!”

The coachman cracked his whip, and the carriage dashed
down the winding road, and was lost among the trees.

“There goes as fine a fellow as ever lived,” said Mrs.
Lennox.

“And what does Mary think?” said Mrs. Elton. “He
will not carry away a whole heart, poor fellow. Such expressive
eyes! such a sweet manner! Do you know, really,
my dear Mrs. Lennox—”

“Let us go out on the point, where they will see us in
the moonlight.”

The party repaired to the spot indicated by Mrs. Lennox,
where, after waiting some ten minutes, they heard once
again the loud bell, the voices of the captain and porters below,
then the heavy thunder of the revolving wheels, and
presently the black mass, glittering in the moonlight, flashing
with lights, music bursting from her deck, the figures of

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people passing to and fro, and, in the stern, a single form,
not recognisable in itself, but easily identified as Glendenning
by the handkerchief which was slowly waved towards
them, till the moving city disappeared behind a sudden bend
among the mountains.

Thus they met, and thus they parted. How will they
meet again? But as none of the gay folks of Rose Hill
was gifted with the faculty of reading the future, the question,
which presented itself to more minds than one, remained
as yet unanswered.