But most of all, at night, when I enter my lonely chamber, and look out upon the summer moon, 'sweet regent of the sky,' floating above me in the 'black blue vault of heaven,' shedding a flood of silver radiance over park, and wood, and water, so pure, so peaceful, so divine,—and think Where is he now?—what is he doing at this moment?—wholly unconscious of this heavenly scene,—perhaps, revelling with his boon companions, perhaps—God help me, it is too—too much!
23rd. Thank heaven, he is come at last! But how altered!—flushed and feverish, listless and languid, his beauty strangely diminished, his vigour and vivacity quite departed. I have not upbraided him by word or look; I have not even asked him what he has been doing. I have not the heart to do it, for I think he is ashamed of himself—he must be so indeed,—and such enquiries could not fail to be painful to both. My forbearance pleases him—touches him even, I am inclined to think. He says he
