not alone, you see;—and those, whose time is fully occupied, seldom complain of solitude."
"Will you not come to-morrow, then? She will be sadly disappointed if you refuse."
I did not relish being thus compassionated for my loneliness; but however, I promised to come.
"What a sweet evening this is!" observed he, looking round upon the sunny park, with its imposing swell and slope, its placid water, and majestic clumps of trees. "And what a paradise you live in!"
"It is a lovely evening," answered I; and I sighed to think how little I had felt its loveliness, and how little of a paradise sweet Grassdale was to me—how still less to the voluntary exile from its scenes. Whether Mr. Hargrave divined my thoughts, I cannot tell, but, with a half-hesitating, sympathizing seriousness of tone and manner, he asked if I had lately heard from Mr. Huntingdon.
"Not lately." I replied.
