from that—it was a look of reverential, tender adoration. Ha, ha! he's not quite such a stupid blockhead as I thought him!"
I made no answer, for my heart was in my throat, or something like it, and I could not trust myself to speak.
"Oh, God, avert it!" I cried, internally—"for his sake, not for mine!"
Miss Murray made several trivial observations as we passed up the park, to which, (in spite of my reluctance to let one glimpse of my feelings appear,) I could only answer by monosyllables.
Whether she intended to torment me, or merely to amuse herself, I could not tell—and did not much care; but I thought of the poor man and his one lamb, and the rich man with his thousand flocks; and I dreaded I knew not what for Mr. Weston, independently of my own blighted hopes.
Right glad was I to get into the house, and find myself alone once more in my own room. My first impulse was to sink into the chair beside the bed, and laying my head on the pillow, to seek relief in a passionate burst of tears: there was an imperative craving for such an indulgence; but alas! I must restrain
