had grown into a sad sweetness. On the brow was a deeper shadow—serious and thoughtful. The glad bursts of laughter, the gay fantasies, the buoyant hopes, which they used to meet and share together, were all gone by for ever.
The servants removed the tea-things, and they drew nearer to the fire, and to each other. Both had a great deal to say, and yet the conversation languished; but we have all felt this after a long absence: confidence is a habit, and requires to be renewed. We have lost the custom of telling every thing; and we begin to fear that what we have to tell is scarcely worth being told. We have formed new acquaintances; we have entered into other amusements; we feel that our tastes are altered; and we require a little while to see if the change be mutual. Moreover, the affections are always timid; they require both encouragement and custom, before they can venture to communicate their regrets.
It is a curious, but an undeniable fact, that the meeting, after absence, of old friends, is
